


The Golden Mage's Captive

by Freya_Ishtar



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Voldemort Wins, Angst, Drama, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Gen, Romance, Tribute Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-13
Updated: 2018-03-13
Packaged: 2019-03-30 18:15:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 27
Words: 100,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13957245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Freya_Ishtar/pseuds/Freya_Ishtar
Summary: *A Companion piece to Canimal's Mage's Captive fics (written with her knowledge and permission)* After Harry Potter's fall, Death Eater Thorfinn Rowle declares Hermione Granger a spoil of war—granted by Voldemort for reasons unknown. Captured after nearly a year running, Hermione faces an uncertain fate as Thorfinn's prize & returns to a world shattered by Voldemort's twisted intentions.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is an alternate telling of Canimal's Mage's Captive fics (The Silver Mage's Captive, & it's companion piece The Dark Mage's Captive [an alternate telling of TSMC]). The Golden Mage's Captive is written & posted with permission of Canimal.
> 
> (Similarities between this story and Canimal's original works are intentional—the alternate tellings contain the same major world events, but differ in pivotal moments at the very beginning of the story, affecting both Hermione's fate & how she interacts with the new, darker Wizarding world)
> 
> Anyone who'd like to verify with Canimal that this story is approved by her, I invite you to PM her. I take no offense to anyone needing verification for their own peace of mind.
> 
> *This can be read as a standalone, but I encourage you to read Canimal's completed originals. Links on my FFN profile.
> 
> CONTENT WARNING: This is a bit darker than I usually write. It will contain mentions of, & reference to, non-con, torture, violence, and character death.
> 
> THORFINN ROWLE FANCAST: Chris Hemsworth (it's not intentional Thor is my Thorfinn fancast, just an amusing coincidence)
> 
> DISCLAIMER: Harry Potter and all affiliated characters © JK Rowling

  

**Chapter One**

**2nd of May, 1998**

Alecto  _fucking_  Carrow. Thorfinn didn't trust the bitch as far as he could throw a dragon—it was no secret she was barking.  _But_ , on rare occasion, even bitches who were barking mad served a purpose.

Harry Potter had fallen and the scene erupted in the most disjointed cacophony—howls of triumph and screams of agony and sorrow mingling. Yet, it seemed a moment of utter shock passed before either side moved.

In the fleeting, confused silence, he followed Antonin's line of sight. Of  _course_  it was fixed on that  _infuriating_  pain in his arse, Hermione Granger. Antonin was  _obsessed_ with her—he tried to hide it, sure, but no man talked about a witch that much unless he had a hard on for her.

Whether that was in the fun way or the gruesome way was anyone's guess.

And it was in _that_  moment that the most bizarre thing happened. A giant came tearing through the battlefield and snatched up the Mudblood. As the thing bolted into the Forbidden Forest with her, the battle resumed, though, without their leader and his girlfriend, or whatever the fuck she was to Potter, the survivors didn't stand a chance.

But, as  _everyone_  else had watched the massive creature stomp away with what likely would have been one damn fine war prize, Alecto Carrow watched Antonin.

And she did _not_  like the expression dawning on his handsome features as his gaze followed the young witch.

As the Dark Lord called for all  _usable_  survivors to be rounded up, Alecto caught Thorfinn by the elbow.

Wincing at the unwanted touch, he tried to shake her off. Until he saw the insistent and quite clear look in her typically mad eyes.

She seemed to be hiding in his shadow—not difficult with the way he towered over most of the other Death Eaters—and it took him a moment to understand. Mad bitch was trying to keep Antonin from seeing her there.

Which could only mean she was up to something.

"Tell him to go after the giant," she said, her voice nearly buried beneath the chaos around them.

"Oh, you  _are_  mad, aren't you?"

Alecto held in a growl, continuing in a hissing whisper, "The Dark Lord means to reward his faithful. If Antonin gets to him first, what do you think he might ask for?"

There was an unpleasant jolt to realizing that even lunatics could be sharp. He looked toward Antonin. Sure enough, the older wizard was surveying the tree line, trying to determine where the giant had gone, exactly.

" _If_  it occurs to him to ask for her, you'll lose your chance at revenge, won't you?"

Frowning, he cast a quick look at her over his shoulder. "Fuck, I hate it when you make sense."

Alecto smiled—a syrupy expression that made Thorfinn wince all over again—and stepped back. Just in time to hear the Dark Lord shout for Molly Weasley to be brought before him.

Antonin turned away from the break in the wall and started for the Great Hall. Their master had retreated into the cavernous room—possibly thinking it quite amusing to sit on the gilded chair once used by Albus Dumbledore—the moment Potter's body collapsed at his feet.

"What are you doing?" Thorfinn asked, stepping in front of him. "Go after the giant!"

Dark eyes blinking rapidly, Antonin tried to process the suggestion. " _What_?"

Broad shoulders slumping, Thorfinn rolled his eyes and tried again. "Go after the giant. Otherwise, you might lose track of the Mudblood."

Antonin hid the way he forced a gulp down his throat as he once more looked toward the Forest. True, the giant had saved her from the battle, but who knew what would become of her in there?

Nodding, he darted toward the trees, wand at the ready.

Thorfinn watched him for only a few heartbeats before he turned on a heel and headed for the Great Hall.

Yet, as soon as he set foot in there, he wished he could be anywhere else. More of his fellow dark wizards than he cared to count were indulging in some of the more violent and deplorable displays of victory.

Against the walls, on the floor . . . . The screams of the witches at their mercy echoed dully off the massive chamber, only seeming to fuel their assailants.

He kept his eyes carefully averted as he crossed the floor, though his skin absolutely  _crawled_ with the sounds of it. Murder? He didn't bat an eye. Torture? Sure, it certainly had its uses. But rape he could  _never_  quite wrap his head around.

Of course, Rabastan liked to say that if Thorfinn had ever needed more than a wink and a charming grin to get a witch, he might understand.

The Weasley matriarch was dead and gone by the time he reached the foot of the dais. And mixing with the witches' cries was a rather distinct voice, in particular.

Though, he didn't want to lift his gaze to confirm the sight, he couldn't help himself.

Narcissa Malfoy stood, a shriek grating out from between stubbornly clenched teeth as a painfully familiar red energy wracked her. How the woman was still on her feet was beyond him, but worse, yet, was that her torment was being inflicted by her own husband and son.

They all knew she'd deceived the Dark Lord, and he did  _not_ tolerate betrayal. Yet, this was more than Thorfinn had expected. Their master clearly wanted her agony sharpened with the knowledge that her loved ones were forced to take her life; to drive her mad before she fell.

She would spend her last moments of sanity burdened with the awareness of what murdering her would do to them.

Thorfinn turned his gaze away before he could register the expressions on Draco's and Lucius' face as they alternated delivering her punishment. He wasn't certain he wanted to know what a man looked like during a moment such as that.

"Thorfinn."

The voice of the Dark Lord—dripping with amusement at his own twisted cleverness—sent a chill up Thorfinn's spine. He'd not slipped up  _once_  during the Battle, which he knew was a feat, considering how heavy-handed he could be with spellcasting in the heat of combat.

He  _knew_  he'd done admirably today, yet he was stricken with a sudden fear that he might've committed some act of which he was unaware, but that the serpentine wizard would consider a grievous misstep.

"My Lord?"

"Come forward."

Nodding, Thorfinn stepped upon the dais. He dropped to his knees before the Dark Lord, kissing the hem of his robes.

"Rise."

Thorfinn stood, but didn't lift his gaze to the wizard before him.

"You . . . performed surprisingly well this day, Thorfinn. I wish to bestow a token upon you for your continued loyalty."

The blond man was speechless, and visibly surprised by the announcement. Yes, Alecto had mentioned exactly this, but he'd still not  _actually_  believed it until this moment.

The Dark Lord seemed to find the younger wizard's stunned silence wildly amusing, and he choked out a rasping laugh. "What would you deem an appropriate expression of my gratitude?"

Giving himself a shake, Thorfinn found his voice—it was admittedly difficult to focus on the hissed words as the organized chaos continued throughout the Great Hall. But, this  _was_ what he'd wanted.

"I want Potter's Mudblood."

Again, the much-feared dark wizard erupted in laughter. Rasping and ragged, he struggled to catch his breath. "An odd request. Whatever for?"

Thorfinn forced a shrug, trying to seem unfazed. "My Lord, I have suffered quite a bit of humiliation because of that little bitch. I plan on returning the favor."

Seeming satisfied with this answer, the Dark Lord's thin lips twisted in a grin. "Granted. When she is found, she is  _yours_  to claim."

Bowing, Thorfinn said, "Thank you, My Lord."

"You may go. Antonin, come forward."

Thorfinn turned, his gaze meeting Antonin's. The other wizard had clearly arrived in time to hear Thorfinn's request, if the mingled gleams of anger and disbelief in his eyes—which he was barely containing—were any indication.

Schooling his features, he started toward the entryway as Antonin made his way to the dais. The dark-haired wizard avoided looking at the depravity occurring around them, just as Thorfinn had.

As they neared one another, Antonin spoke under his breath—just loud enough for the younger wizard to hear him. "You would be wise not to make an enemy of me."

"Tell me what you want with her, and maybe I'll see you get some playtime."

An angry scowl marring his features, Antonin continued onto the Dark Lord. Thorfinn sidestepped, narrowly missing the dark-haired man's deliberate attempt to shoulder past him.

* * *

**28th of January, 1999**

Hermione was tired.  _God_ , was she tired. Tired and cold, and sick to her eyeballs of this wretched tent that smelled of cat urine.

Some days, she thought the scent would seep into her weary bones and stay there until the moment she died.

Two-hundred-seventy-one days had floated by since her world had fallen apart. Two-hundred-seventy-one days she'd been alone, never staying in one place for more than a few days for fear she'd be caught.

She used her magic sparingly, erecting protective wards before settling down each evening. There were even nights that had been not quite so awful. But  _now_  . . . .

Now she was freezing, the bitter cold of the Scottish winter night outside the tent cutting through the blankets she'd piled on herself. Even creating an enchanted fire was more magic than she dared use—she might as well send up a flare, inviting any roaming Death Eaters to come find her.

This was one of those nights when she simply didn't understand why she kept struggling. Why did she keep pushing to survive if  _this_  was all that was left to her?

Her lower lip trembled, but not from the chill in her bones. There was a terrible twisting sensation in the center of her chest, stealing her breath, as always happened when she thought . . . .

Perhaps she'd have been better off, had she died beside Harry.

Forcing a sniffle, she shook her head and stood. "No, no, no. You've been stuck here too long, already; you have to move, that's the problem!"

Yes, yes. Moving was good. She was cold, and tired, and was lucky if she ate a single square meal in the course of three days.

She needed to get somewhere warm, and she still had some money left. Probably more than enough to pay for a meal, but not by very much.

God, if she didn't figure something out soon, she wasn't sure how much longer she'd be surviving. She couldn't find it in her to consider the past almost-year as living, because it _wasn't_  living—she simply hadn't died, yet.

Taking a deep breath, she braced for the chill of the night air and left the tent.

She withdrew that hated wand—Bellatrix Lestrange's wand, as vile and twisted as the witch, herself, but even a twisted wand was better than none at all—from her beaded bag and set to carefully dispelling her wards and enchantments. Hermione was diligent in scrubbing all traces of her magic use from an area before she moved on.

Fishing out some money to stuff in the pocket of her jeans, she then tucked the little bag safely away inside her boot.

Head down, hood up, and her wild, easily-identified hair secured in a tight braid, she made her way into town.

She didn't like traveling about—the openness made her paranoid. It didn't help, she supposed, that she'd had no news, whatsoever, from the Wizarding world since Grawp had taken her from the battle.

So bad she'd wanted to go back, but with Harry gone, she knew in her heart the Battle of Hogwarts was lost, and with it, The Second Wizarding War. Sometimes she wondered, though. Had Ron survived? Had Ginny? What about sweet, unexpectedly brave Neville?

Were they hiding out somewhere, as she'd been?

The lack of information was maddening, but any attempt to enter a wizarding community, even just to find a discarded issue of the Daily Prophet, might be the thing to get her caught.

And as a hated Mudblood,  _and_  the girl who'd help Harry Potter nearly succeed in ending Voldemort, Hermione couldn't imagine the Dark Lord had very pleasant plans for her.

She shook her head, trying to still her troubled thoughts. This was getting her nowhere.  _One thing at a time, Hermione._

With a deep breath, the witch decided to focus on simply getting indoors. Certainly, Inverness was lovely and picturesque in the winter, but the cold biting into her skin—and making her diminished form shiver so hard, she was surprised she could walk straight—made letting that loveliness distract her from her woes an impossibility.

A lively little pub caught her eye, and she hurried to the door, as fast as her frozen feet would carry her. She nearly collided with a group of young men entering just ahead of her.

The last of the group was kind enough to hold the door for her. Hermione thought distantly he might be trying to speak to her, but she only had eyes for the roaring flames in the cozy establishment's fireplace.

She hurried to an open spot at the bar nearest the fireplace, scrambling to pull back her hood and feel the warmth of the fire directly on her face as she sat. When her body had thawed enough that she could manage to speak without her teeth chattering, she ordered a pint and a bowl of soup.

After so much silence in her empty, sad tent, she actually found herself enjoying the busy atmosphere. Not that she cared join in, but she actually managed to relax some by the time she was spooning warm, delicious broth and veggies into her mouth and sipping the most delightful dark beer.

She'd nearly finished half the bowl—more food than she'd eaten in one sitting in longer than she cared to recall—when she heard a voice over her shoulder.

"Let me buy you another?"

Glancing toward the speaker, she saw the same young man who'd held the door for her. He was cute, and grinning ear-to-ear, but Hermione wasn't certain what it was about her _piss off_  demeanor that had made him decide  _she_ was the girl to chat up, out of all the females in the pub at that moment.

"No, thank you."

"Please?" he asked, sidling up next to her as the patron who'd been seated there left.

She stood to dig her pocket for her money. "I'm sorry, I was just leaving."

His brow furrowed. "You didn't even finish your soup."

Hermione, afraid to waste the food, but uncertain she could finish it with the way her stomach was suddenly twisting up in knots at the unwanted attention, sat back down. She took quick spoonfuls of as much of the broth as she could manage, hoping he'd take the hint that she was in no mood for conversation.

"My name's Ryan."

She offered him an unkind look.

"Oh, don't be that way," he said with a grin . . . and what was very probably a drunk gleam in his eye. "I only want to know your name."

Setting down the spoon, Hermione stared at him a moment before offering the most depressingly Muggle name she could rightly call to mind. "Petunia."

His brows shot up, and she almost wished he'd crack a joke so she could leave without making a rude spectacle of herself.

"Not a name you hear much these days," he continued with the blatant insistence only inebriated people could muster. "I don't think I've seen you here before, do you go to university?"

"Just passing through. Now, if you don't mind . . . ." She polished off the last sips of her drink and was quite unhappy to find his hand on her wrist.

"C'mon, just one drink. _Please_? It'll break my heart if you don't."

More fearful of undue attention she'd receive if the drunk young man made a scene than she was of the young man, himself, she reluctantly agreed.

That didn't stop her from slamming back the drink as fast as she could without making herself sick. It had been too long since she'd consumed any sort of alcohol, let alone with only three quarters of a bowl of soup in her stomach.

Ryan blinked, letting out a low, shocked breath as he watched her finish the drink in a matter of seconds.

Finally putting her money down on the counter for her first drink and the soup, she nodded to him. "Thank you for the drink, Ryan."

Yet, as she turned away, he looped an arm around her and turned her back toward the bar. "I don't even get a conversation? Two minutes is all I'm asking, Petunia. I  _swear_  I don't bite."

"You don't bite, but you certainly have no problem putting your hands all over someone without their permission." The snapped words were out of her mouth before Hermione could stop herself.

Ryan's brows shot up and he pouted. "I'm sorry," he said as he held up his hands. "I get a bit handsy when I'm pissed. Look, two minutes, you'll see I'm a nice guy. Promise."

The door opened and Hermione's paranoia caused her to glance back, curious to see who'd entered.

She'd not expected to see Thorfinn Rowle standing there. With Albert Runcorn beside him, she knew she was in trouble. One Death Eater she might slip past, but _two?_

"Bollocks," she said in a frantic whisper as she turned back. Luckily it seemed the crowded setting—and Ryan's invasive closeness at her side—had kept either of the two imposing men from spotting her.

"Wha's wrong?" her new friend asked, his speech a bit slurred.

Ducking her head toward his, she said as low as she could, while still being loud enough for him to hear her over the din, "My husband just walked in! If he sees me here, he'll kill me—and probably you, too,  _just_  for talking to me!"

Ryan turned his head, blinking bleary eyes around the pub. Hermione counted her blessings that he was somehow sharp enough to make it seem he was idly glancing about. "Which one?"

Taller and more evidently broad-shouldered, Thorfinn was the more intimidating of the two. He was also the more attractive option, by leagues, despite that Runcorn wasn't a bad-looking fellow, either. She'd Avada herself before admitting to either observation, but Hermione always was a sucker for a plausible story, and being lured in by good looks only to end up in a soured marriage was a thing that happened all the time wasn't it?

"The blond one."

"You know how to pick 'em, Petunia; he's terrifying."

"He can't find me here," she pleaded, though she wasn't quite sure what she expected the drunk to do.

Without a word, Ryan slipped his arm around her once more and moved behind the bar, tugging her with him. Before Hermione realized what was happening, she found herself sitting on the floor beneath the taps beside Ryan.

The bartender flashed her a quick look of sympathy. She could only guess this wasn't his first time dealing with this scenario.

Pushing through the crowded pub, the pair of Death Eaters made their way to the bar.

"I'd appreciate you not jostling my customers," the bartender said, a jovial grin on his face, but his voice serious. "Anything  _I_ can help you gentleman with?"

Runcorn nodded, pulling a photograph from his pocket. "Have you seen this young woman?"

The bartender's gaze swept over her as he casually dropped his attention to the glass he was cleaning. "Can't be sure. We get lots of pretty girls in here from the university."

Hermione closed her eyes against a sudden, surprising upwelling of frightened tears. God, she hated crying—probably the alcohol.

"Look again."

That was Thorfinn Rowle's voice. Hermione still recognized it from his insistence on calling her  _Princess_  every time they'd run into one another during the single year they'd shared at Hogwarts.

Shoulders slumping, the bartender took a second look. "You know what? I did see her."

Hermione's gasp was cut short by Ryan's hand clamping over her mouth.

"But I'm sorry, you missed her. She walked out of here maybe five minutes before you walked in."

With a dissatisfied sigh, Runcorn pocketed the photograph and pulled out a white business card. "She's in danger, it's important we find her. Please, if you see her again, let us know right away."

The bartender nodded as he took the card, pretending to carefully look it over. "Certainly."

Hermione imagined she could feel the floor beneath her quaking as the Death Eaters stomped away. The bartender watched the door, signaling to the seated pair after a moment.

She had no idea what to say or do to thank the man as he tore up the business card while Ryan pulled her to her feet.

He nodded to Ryan. "Take her out the back. And Miss, do yourself a favor, divorce that man while you're still young."

Resisting an overwhelming urge to throw her arms around the old man's neck and hug him, she simply clasped her hands around his. "Thank you for helping me!"

The bartender smiled and nodded before he dropped the pleasant demeanor and made a shooing gesture. "Go."

Grabbing Hermione's hand, Ryan hurried them through the pub's kitchen and out the backdoor. They exited into an alleyway that, unfortunately for her, was a straight-shot to the front of the establishment on one end, but the other led  _away_ , and that was all that mattered, just now.

He gestured for her to stay quiet, hidden in the shadow of the door as she was as he crept out a bit, looking about.

"They _are_  stubborn," he said, the slur gone and the dreamy-drunkard quality to his expression vanished, entirely. "Okay, listen, I'm going to go out front and distract them. You count to sixty, then make a run for it."

"You're sure? You could get—"

"I'll be fine. _You're_  the one needs to be careful. Runcorn's got an anti-Apparition ward around him, and you're not going to be able to put enough distance between you and him to get clear that way, otherwise."

Her chestnut eyes shot wide. "What? How did you—?"

"Graduated Hogwarts just before you started. What? Don't know a helpful Hufflepuff when you see one, Hermione Granger?"

Unable to help herself from giving into a hug this time, Hermione threw her arms around the man.

He hugged her back for a quick second before pulling away, again. "We've got some mutual friends who want you safe. Remember sixty and run. Go left as far as you can and just keep going. Don't stop, don't look back, just go. His ward's got a perimeter of about a mile, so when you think you're far enough, Disapparate.  _Anywhere_  far from here."

Hermione nodded. "Thank you, Ryan."

Nodding, he granted her a quick, charming grin before he darted back into the pub.

She tried to breathe, slow and deep between numbers as she counted. Tried to calm herself and center, focus on nothing else but running. And going left. With trembling fingers, she withdrew Bellatrix's awful wand from its hiding place.

" . . . Sixty."

Before she knew it, her legs were moving, carrying her down the other side of the alley. Despite the rush of the wind and her own pulse pounding in her ears, she could hear some type of commotion from the front of the pub.

For a brief, glimmering moment, she thought her escape went unnoticed.

"Someone's in the alley!"

She  _definitely_  heard the sound of heavy, rushed footfalls moving after her, then.

Hermione took the first left, and the next and the next. All the while, her pursuer kept pace. Her stomach lurched as she ran, but she couldn't stop.

At this rate, she was never going to shake them. And she didn't have the strength to run hard like this very long.

A few more lefts and she wasn't certain she was putting  _any_  distance between them, at all. Her mind whirled into action as she listened to the footsteps behind her. They took the turns after she did, they had clearly worked out the brilliant  _Go Left_  scheme.

Ryan had all but begged her to keep moving left, but they were  _going_  to catch her at this rate.

At the next opening, she shot right. In the alley she turned down, an open doorway beckoned. Dark and quiet as she neared it, she bolted inside. Before she even caught her breath, she eased the door closed.

She didn't hear any footfalls. Just barely managing to keep her meal in her stomach, her legs gave out from under her and she found herself sitting on the floor.

Hermione had no idea where she was—the back of a shop, some Muggle's basement, didn't matter—it was dark, and it was quiet, and she couldn't hear anyone coming for her. At the moment, that was all that mattered.

As the adrenaline drained from her system, her weariness combined quickly with the simple, wonderful fact that it was warmer here than in her miserable tent.

Before she could realize what was happening and snap herself awake, her head had dropped onto her knees and she drifted into a fitful slumber.

* * *

Thorfinn couldn't help a triumphant smirk as he carried the dozing witch from her hiding place. He couldn't help but find the situation wildly amusing after all those times she'd caught him in inappropriate situations during his last year at Hogwarts, and her first. Honestly, ever since she'd stumbled over him getting sucked off in the library, it seemed the little bitch had set out to catch him  _every_ bloody time he got up to  _anything_  with some pretty, willing witch at school.

She'd made his last year  _hell_. But none of that came close to the incident in the Muggle café. He didn't think he or Dolohov would treat memory charms as flippant things,  _ever_ again, thanks to her. Not when the only way to break them was excruciating suffering.

Oh, but the look on her face when she woke to realize her predicament. . . . That was going to be _good_.

* * *

Hermione was warm. And oddly comfortable. The unfamiliar sensations almost made her want to snuggle up and drift into a deeper sleep.

Yet, just how unfamiliar those sensations were startled her awake.

The first thing she saw upon opening her eyes was strands of golden hair. With a confused frown, she followed the locks up to the face above her.

The blue eyes of Thorfinn Rowle glanced down to meet hers a moment. "Morning, Princess."

The shock of realizing that _comfort_  had been the Death Eater carrying her against his chest set her off. She kicked and shifted, struggling in his embrace.

He tsked, moving her in his arms to toss her over his shoulder. Runcorn snickered as he walked beside him.

Angered by her new, vulnerable position, Hermione scowled. "You  _must_  be joking!" Her wand was gone, they'd obviously snatched it up when they grabbed her.

"Behave yourself, and I won't make this anymore embarrassing for you. A courtesy I don't recall you  _ever_  showing me."

"A courtesy—? I  _assure_  you, there is nothing more embarrassing than being carried over some hulking wizard's shoulder like a sack of potatoes!"

Again, Runcorn snickered. "She's certainly a chatty thing."

Brows lifting, Thorfinn nodded. "You wanna bet, Princess?"

Hermione uttered a small growl-like sound in the back of her throat. "And  _stop_  calling me—" Her words were cut short by one, large hand swatting her bum.

The surprised squeak that came out of the witch amused the Death Eaters a great deal.

"Oh, just hand me over to your Dark Lord, already, and let him kill me." She was hardly welcoming death, but she didn't understand the delay. And really, wasn't it better than being subject to the whims of these two?

"Hand you over?"

She was jostled carelessly as Thorfinn pulled her back over his shoulder. His hands under her arms, he held her up so they were eye-level. Hermione forced a gulp down her throat—she didn't have to look to know her toes dangled several inches above ground.

Thorfinn Rowle grinned, the expression a bit feral as he held her gaze. "You're not getting handed over."

Somehow, the idea of  _not_  dying at the hands of Voldemort had never seemed so dismal. "Then what—?"

"Suppose this news is going to be a bit of a shock for you, Princess, but . . . ." He let his gaze rove over her features for a quick moment before returning his attention to the feisty witch's eyes. "I  _own_  you."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

Hermione was in shock. She knew she must be, because as Thorfinn's words bounced about in her head, her voice left her. Time stood still for several heartbeats and she was suddenly very aware of her own breath escaping her lips as she stared back at him.

He arched a brow at her silence, clearly anticipating that she would fight, and rage against the mad injustice of it, and blah, blah, blah. This wasn't at all what he expected; something was  _wrong_.

Tipping his head, he looked her over. Certainly, she felt impossibly light, but now he noticed how her heavy coat and Muggle garments hung off her. Her face looked narrower, her cheekbones more pronounced, and her chestnut eyes appeared larger than he recalled.

This shell of a witch staring back at him as she visibly tried to process her situation—and didn't fight back—was  _not_ the Hermione Granger who'd made a veritable career of embarrassing him. There was a chance she wasn't struggling because she simply didn't have the strength for it.

_Fuck._

Whatever. Getting her back to her old self only meant delaying what he had planned for her a few months. He could be patient.

Aware, suddenly, that Runcorn was witnessing the interaction—and he'd be damned if his fellow Death Eater was going to read too much into this, and share whatever  _highly_  imaginative observation he might think he gleaned with their cohorts—Thorfinn tilted his head to one side and smirked.

"Oh, don't look like that, Princess," he said in an amused tone. "There's plenty worse fates out there than being stuck with me."

Hermione couldn't fight as he tucked her back into his arms and started walking, once more. She was drained, and confused, and immediately very concerned about these  _worse fates_  he mentioned.

Strangely, she actually felt she was on the verge of drifting off again as he moved. That was hardly her fault, she would tell herself later—she hated him, but this was the warmest she'd been the entire winter. And the rocking motion of his body as he walked probably helped.

He could very well be planning to string her up and slowly torture her to death whenever they got to their destination, but she couldn't bring herself to care about that as she floated in that sweet, half-awake limbo.

"There they are."

Hermione thought it must be her imagination that she heard a faint rumbling sound from Thorfinn's chest beneath her ear—as though her captor was growling quietly. Forcing herself to stir, she opened her eyes to see who Runcorn was talking about.

Two figures clad in dark leather robes waited on the outskirts of Inverness. As they started walking to meet the Death Eaters, she closed her eyes, again.

"Sorry, Princess, protocol and all that," Thorfinn said shifting her meager weight in his arms. "Got to turn you over to the Aurors for a bit."

Aurors from a Voldemort-influenced Ministry was possibly _the_  most terrifying thing Hermione could think of in that moment. She couldn't believe what she was doing as she curled her fingers into Thorfinn's robes and uttered an unhappy groan, pretending she was still half-dozing.

"How sweet," Runcorn said with a chuckle. "Seems your new little pet has taken a liking to you, already."

_God_ , what she wouldn't give for the other wizard to be close enough that she could kick him! Albert Runcorn could certainly use a good heel to the throat, as it was.

"We are here to—"

"To take custody of the Undesirable, we  _know_." Thorfinn's voice was harsh as he nodded, irritated that they thought they needed to explain their presence to the men who'd  _invited_  them there.

He generally believed one had to be intelligent to be an Auror—perhaps  _this_  one was simply an anomaly.

She felt a horrible chill in the pit of her stomach. An Undesirable? But of course she was! They'd probably not only  _not_  lifted her warrant, but had added to it during her absence, making her seem some truly feared criminal.

And she was going to stop thinking of _anything_ as the worst possible scenario, because clearly this one kept spiraling further downward, each time she considered just how bad off she was.

"Careful," Thorfinn said as he again tried to pull her away from him. "I think she's having trouble keeping her feet under her."

The Aurors exchanged an irritated glance—evidently the last thing they wanted was to have to handle an Undesirable delicately—and one stepped forward to hold his arms out for her.

_Like he's accepting a ruddy parcel_ , she thought, infuriated, but powerless . . . . Which only infuriated her further.

"Oh, for Merlin's fucking sake," Runcorn said, a chuckle lighting his words, despite his exasperated tone. He clearly found her subdued feistiness amusing, but was irked by how complicated she was making this simple procedure.

Thorfinn pushed her into the newcomer's waiting arms as Runcorn pried her fingers from the blond wizard's robes. The combined effort finally landed the unhappy witch in the Auror's embrace.

The Auror turned away, without a word to the pair of Death Eaters. Hermione shifted and strained, lifting herself enough to stare daggers at Thorfinn over the wizard's shoulder.

"Just a few hours, Princess. Try not to get yourself killed."

_Just a few hours?_  For what? Where the  _hell_  were they taking her?

Hermione swallowed hard, being forced through Apparation with the Auror holding her before she could brace for it. It was definitely the worst scenario,  _now_ , if she was considering that she'd felt safer with Thorfinn Rowle.

* * *

The place she found herself was bright, blindingly so, and fresh-scrubbed. However, it looked like a place that  _should_  be dank and dark and miserable, and the contrast was sharp, even jarring. The bars, the blank floors and walls . . . .

There was no question, she was in a prison. Though it was a step up from Azkaban, she could only imagine these were holding cells within the walls of the Ministry, itself. Which meant she might not be in this  _step up_  for long before finding herself in the real thing.

She wanted to ask what was happening, but she already knew the Auror carrying her along the blank, barred corridor was not pleased with their present situation. If she pushed him, he might just throw her to the floor.

Hermione didn't think she currently had the fortitude not to wind up with broken bones, if he did.

Finally, he turned, walking her into an open cell. He didn't throw her, but the slack in his arms gave her time to brace for impact as he let her drop.

Wincing, she pulled herself to sit up as the Auror exited, closing and locking the cell door behind him with a flick of his wand. She moved gingerly; the tumble still hurt like hell, but nothing seemed permanently damaged.

"Look what we have here."

Hermione felt an unpleasant chill up her spine at that voice. Forcing herself to her feet, she backed away from the bars. The last thing she needed at this moment was to come face-to-face with the one person who hated her more than Voldemort probably did.

"No hellos, Miss Granger?" Dolores Umbridge said, strolling casually before the cell. "Hmm, don't suppose I should expect manners from a deplorable little creature, such as yourself."

Hermione had considered many possible fates,  _were_  she to ever come face-to-face with the toad in pink, again. Being annoyed to death was not one of them.

" _I'm_ deplorable?" The younger witch scoffed, though, for a fleeting moment, she considered that this  _terrible_ vision in pastels had a rather valid reason for wanting her dead, or maimed, or hurt in some terrible, permanently damaging way.

But only for that fleeting second. It was just as easy to call to mind why she could never feel sympathy toward a woman like Dolores Umbridge. "I may have had a hand in something _quite_  awful happening to you," Hermione said, her words slipping out from between clenched teeth, "but at least  _I'm_  not the one gets my jollies torturing children."

Umbridge's chubby face lost some of its forced, sickeningly bright expression. "You horrible little children never  _did_ appreciate my methods of discipline."

Hermione suddenly found the other witch's wand aimed at her. Backpedaling, she threw up her own empty hands in a sign of surrender.

For a breathless moment, Umbridge only stared at Hermione, that mask falling away to reveal how livid she truly was. The woman's entire aura crackled with magical energy as she glared through the bars.

Yet, the fear she saw in the younger witch's eyes had a rather more satisfying affect than she'd been expecting. Oh, there were ways to make this girl pay that did not require dirtying her hands.

Plastering on a serene grin, Dolores Umbridge dropped her wandhand to her side. "I will see you again, _shortly_ , Miss Granger."

The portly woman turned on her heel and scurried away. The movement reminded Hermione oddly of Peter Pettigrew for a bizarre second.

After a door slammed at the far end of the corridor, Hermione gave into unexpected fits of laughter. She was unable to help herself from picturing Pettigrew in one of Umbridge's horrible pink ensembles. Or Dolores as a rat . . . .

Either image was so endlessly amusing that before she could stop it, she'd fallen right down on her bum, laughing hysterically.

"That one's gone 'round the bend, hasn't she?"

Hermione just barely heard the Aurors stationed there, conversing over her hiccupped giggles. There was just some strange, cathartic release in her outburst, and she didn't care to stop if they didn't care to  _make_  her stop.

"If you  _knew_  you were headed to Azkaban, wouldn't you go just a little mad, too?"

There was some faint shuffling noise, she thought perhaps turning the page of a newspaper?

"Maybe they'll send her off to Umbridge Home, with all her little  _Dumbledore's Army_  whore friends."

"You git, they don't send Mudbloods there. If she's not executed, it'll be Azkaban."

She calmed instantly, catching her breath in loud gulps of air and blinking tiredly as she turned over the conversation in her head. Umbridge Home? What was that? And why were the other DA members sent there instead of Azkaban? Weren't they considered criminals, too?

She could barely pay mind to their flippant use of the word  _execution,_  just now. Not when she'd just heard that her friends were somewhere with Dolores Umbridge's name stamped on it.

Perhaps she'd drifted to sleep as she sat there on the floor, waiting for who knew what and more tired than she could ever recall feeling in her entire existence. Maybe she'd simply been staring at the wall in a dazed stupor as she tried not to think about whatever fate it might be from which she'd been unable to save her friends.

Whatever had happened, she was snapped to attention by the sound of the cell door unlocking.

The Aurors entered, each grabbing one of her arms and pulling her to her feet. They dragged her out, and down the corridor, not bothering to check if she actually  _could_  walk on her own.

She tried to keep up, to get her feet under her, but at their pace, her efforts only caused her to stumble about between them. Couldn't leave her a bloody shred of dignity, could they?

Through several corridors, into a lift, and then down another series of corridors they went. Didn't matter how maze-like the path felt, she knew where they were taking her. She closed her eyes, focusing her breathing as they dragged her along.

Then, she heard doors close behind them, and a _lot_  of hushed murmurs go up around her. Hermione forced herself to look.

Opening her eyes, she saw the grand sprawl of the Wizengamot before her. The Aurors were pulling her through the chamber so fast, she didn't even have a moment to look about.

As she was released to stand before the assembly, she was surprised her legs didn't give out from under her.

With very little preamble, the  _Minister_ —that bloody idiot, Pius Thicknesse—began. "Hermione Jean Granger, you stand accused of grievous crimes against the Dark Lord. Aiding and abetting Harry Potter, at that time designated Undesirable Number One, failure to register with the Muggle-born Commission, and theft of the wand and powers of witch or wizard unknown. How do you plead?"

She swallowed hard, shaking her head. This was  _madness_! But then, what was she really expecting from a Wizarding Britain ruled by Voldemort?

As she opened her mouth to speak, an irritating tutting sound cut through the vast room. Hermione recalled that noise too well, and felt her stomach churning anxiously in response.

Pius turned toward the nightmare of a witch, who had pushed her way from her own seat to place herself at his shoulder. "Madam Undersecretary?"

Umbridge, with a nauseating smile twisting her lips, leaned to speak quietly in the Minister's ear. Hermione couldn't  _not_  notice the wax-sealed scroll the vile woman handed him while she talked.

"Ladies and Gentlemen of the Wizengamot, esteemed guests, I have been informed that Miss Granger has submitted a signed confession. She has plead guilty to all charges."

"What?" the word was out of Hermione's mouth before she could think, gaining more response from the  _esteemed_  guests than that rubbish confession in the Minister's hand had.

"Miss Granger, for your crimes, I hereby sentence you to—"

"One moment, please, Minister."

Hermione didn't know if she was relieved or horror-stricken to hear Thorfinn Rowle's voice echo through the chamber. She turned to look. Sure enough, the blond wizard was making his way across the floor toward her.

As she turned back, her gaze swept over a dark-eyed wizard. Mixed in with the seated crowd watching the proceedings, he simply stared at her.

_Dolohov?_

Forcing a gulp down her throat, she immediately spun back toward the assembly. She  _still_ had nightmares about that man chasing her through the Hall of Prophecy.

Of nearly losing her life at just sixteen years old to that painful, mysterious spell he'd hurled at her.

Again, she concentrated on her breathing, ignoring that her imagination had kicked into gear. It  _had_ to be her imagination, what with how she could  _swear_ she felt the weight of his gaze on her like a physical thing.

Thorfinn strolled right past her and up to stand before the Minister. "May I see the confession?"

Umbridge sputtered, clearly angered by the request. "Why, Sir, I do not believe you have the—"

"As a representative of our Dark Lord, I  _absolutely_ have the right to verify such a document."

Hermione wasn't certain she believed what was happening as she watched Pius hand the scroll to Thorfinn. The Death Eater broke the seal, unfurling the parchment and giving its contents a long look.

After what seemed like forever, he uttered a short laugh, his head shaking. "I attended Hogwarts with the accused. I remember her handwriting quite well. I don't know who wrote this document, but it was  _not_ Hermione Granger."

The entire room erupted in gasps and shocked murmurs.

"Mr. Rowle, are suggesting I would—"

"Of course, I am not suggesting  _anything_  untoward of you, Madam Undersecretary," he said, cutting off the red-faced witch quite effectively. He tore the confession in half and handed it back to the Minister. "I am, however, stating you should look to your staff; it seems one of them  _knowingly_  handed you a forged confession."

It was a few stammering heartbeats before Hermione understood. He'd both just caught Umbridge in a lie, quite publicly,  _and_ given her a way to save face. If she continued arguing, she would only make herself appear guilty of an attempt to deceive the Minister and manipulate the Wizengamot.

Her expression tight, Umbridge tried to hide the daggers she was glaring at him.

He either didn't notice, or didn't care, as he withdrew a new scroll from his robes. "This, however, Minister, is a statement from our Dark Lord. The accused is to be remanded into  _my_  custody."

There was another outburst through the chamber, but Thicknesse ignored it, hurrying with trembling fingers to open the scroll. As he read the statement, Umbridge made a nuisance of herself by peering over his shoulder.

Hermione felt a little glimmer of joy at the way the toad's face drained of color.

Nodding, the Minister handed the scroll back to Thorfinn. "Hermione Granger, by order of the Dark Lord, you are considered guilty of all charges, and are hereby remanded into the custody of Death Eater Thorfinn Rowle, to live out the remainder of your days as he deems fit."

Her heart fell into her stomach as she stared back at the Minister, unblinking. Live out her days as Thorfinn Rowle deemed fit? He'd said he owned her, but she hadn't been able to truly believe such a notion, until this moment.

_Oh, dear_ God _. Kill me now._

She didn't hear the roar of the gathered witches and wizards reacting to the verdict. She couldn't register Dolores Umbridge's livid gaze darting from her, to the Death Eater, and back.

"All right, Princess," Thorfinn said, startling Hermione—she hadn't even noticed him walk over to her. "Time to go."

Next thing she knew, he'd closed one large hand around her wrist and started toward the exit. Oddly, she didn't wait for his lead to tug her into step, following more or less of her own, surprised, volition.

As the sensation she hadn't realized was missing began flooding back into her extremities, there was again that weight pressing on her. Unable to help herself, she looked to the source of the feeling.

Antonin Dolohov sat, still. Everyone else was on their feet, arguing and making some fuss, or another. Yet, he simply sat, watching her.

There was an odd flicker of pain in her chest—a sense-memory of those horrible purple flames with which he'd struck her. She winced, bringing up her free arm to cover herself as she unintentionally held his gaze.

At her reaction, something flashed through his expression that Hermione couldn't read, but she could take no more of his gaping. She tore her gaze from his as she continued along, a step behind Thorfinn.

When they neared the doors, she noticed a head of familiar, silver-blond hair dart out ahead of them. What on  _earth_  had Lucius Malfoy been doing there?

Oh, well. She'd nearly helped destroy his  _precious_  Dark Lord, he'd probably come to see if they would execute her.

They continued on in silence until they reached the Ministry's extensive network of Floo channels. Hermione imagined he was taking her to Voldemort, to happily torture her in front of the twisted dark wizard. For all she knew, they meant her  _days to live out_  to be a week of excruciating pain.

So, she couldn't help herself as she asked in a miserable voice. "Where are you taking me?"

He turned to look down at her, one brow arched. "Home, Princess."

He pulled her into his side, saying something she didn't quite catch as he walked them into the green flames.

Hermione closed her eyes tight. She forced down a sudden upwelling of tears and tried not to imagine what type of place, exactly, the Death Eater called  _home_.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

When the faint whooshing and crackling around them died away, Hermione pushed away from him with as much strength as she could muster. She was moving before she'd even opened her eyes to take in her new surroundings.

Despite her diminished weight, he wasn't expecting the sudden struggle and she managed to force herself from his arms . . . . Just to lose her footing and stumble.

The only thing that stopped her from toppling to the floor was the Death Eater swooping down—quicker and more agilely than she'd thought a man his size should be able to move—to scoop her into one arm.

Setting her on her feet, he frowned at her, his tone lightly amused. " _There's_  a little more of the witch I remember."

She scowled, but moved much more delicately this time as she pulled away from him. "What is it you went to all this trouble for, anyway?" she asked, trying to still a nervous quivering in the pit of her stomach.

Thorfinn's brows shot up in question.

Hermione was getting so irritated so quickly that it was actually winding her to speak in her diminished physical capacity. Though, she'd thought perhaps this whirlwind of a day might be contributing to that. "What is it you plan to do with your ownership over me?"

Smirking, he shook his head to step past her, walking further into the room she had yet to even glance at. "I should think that was obvious, Princess. But, quite honestly, you're a bit gamy from your time playing in the wilds, so, you're going to wash up and then we'll finish this little chat."

"Oh, yes," she said, her chestnut eyes narrowing lethally as she spoke in a hissing whisper, "and you positively smell of rose petals." Okay, so this had been the second time in one day she'd been held close enough to his body to catch the scent of his skin, and he actually smelled quite nice.

But he'd have to torture her horrifically before she'd ever open her mouth to admit  _that_.

"And to think, for a moment, I almost missed your argumentativeness."

Her attention was flagging and wavering easily in her tired state. Just as Hermione's gaze started to rove, taking in the room where they stood, she found herself in the air. There was no time to appreciate the surprisingly pleasant, though modest, parlor—or that it was much sunnier than she would ever have imagined the home of one of Voldemort's followers to be—as the Death Eater tossed her over his shoulder, as he'd done on that road in Inverness, just that morning.

"Oh, my _God_! Thorfinn Rowle, you put me down this instant!"

"Sorry," he said as he started walking through the humble—at least compared to other pure-blood ancestral homes—estate house. "Perhaps you're fuzzy on how this all works, but you are in no position to give orders. Literally  _or_  figuratively."

The witch huffed and began slapping angrily at the small of his back.

"Just a little lower and I might actually start enjoying that, Princess."

With a scandalized gasp, Hermione tucked her hands under her arms. The more compact position caused her to swing about a bit as he started up a winding staircase, but she'd rather smack her head against the banister than chance accidentally swatting him, again—or swatting him  _any_  lower.

She put up no more fuss as he reached the second level. Down a corridor and into a bedroom, they went. She tried not to panic about the change in environment, but she focused on her breathing, on the idea that whatever he intended was better than going slowly mad in Azkaban as all warmth and light was stolen from her by the roaming army of Dementors . . . .

And hoping that he actually wouldn't want to do anything untoward to her while she smelled  _gamy_.

But he continued past the bed and into the open doorway of an en-suite bathroom. She was sure he was tempted to simply toss her onto the tiled floor, but instead he knelt, slipping her from his shoulder to set her down almost gently.

Rising to his full height—which was _even_  more imposing than usual from her seated position—he pointed to the bathtub as he held her gaze. "Wash up. I  _mean_  it."

She folded her arms under her breasts and scowled. At this point, she was being stubborn for the sheer sake of it, and was perfectly aware that they  _both_ knew it.

Letting out a surprised chuckle, he sat on his heels before her. "You will get in that tub and clean yourself up. Shower, bath, I don't care, but you _will_  do as I say," he said, his voice pitched low. "Because if you don't, I'll do it for you, and I will be certain to scrub every  _single_ millimeter of your lovely skin, Princess."

Swallowing hard—there was something in the way he continued to hold her gaze as he leveled the threat that she utterly refused to think on—she nodded. "Fine, I'll wash up."

He smirked as he stood, and she wondered if he read something from her expression of which she simply wasn't aware. "Funny, I'm not sure if you want me to be pleased or disappointed with your choice."

Her jaw fell open, but before she could sputter any sort of protest, he stepped out and pulled the door closed.

Hermione dragged in a deep breath and pushed it out from between pursed lips. There was something pleasant about the idea of having a nice, hot shower. Of wrapping herself in the soft towels and the plush bathrobe she spotted, piled atop the marble shelf beside the tub.

Nodding to herself, she pushed up to her feet. She was oddly grateful her captor wasn't there to see the way she used the wall at her back to keep her balance.

That her current physical state, combined with the multitude of unpleasant shocks she'd received in less than twenty-four hours, had made her so unsteady on her own feet was cause to worry just how much longer she'd have really lasted, had she not been captured that morning. But she was not going to allow herself to dwell on the idea that Thorfinn Rowle might've actually saved her life.

Meeting her reflection's gaze in the gilded oval mirror above the sink, she started peeling off her clothes. She carelessly allowed them to drop to the floor around her.

When she finally stood bare, she tried not to dwell on how gaunt she'd gotten over these months alone. Not that there'd been anyone to notice how slight her figure had become; she didn't know if she was grateful for that, or it only made the past almost-year even more depressing to recall.

Yet, in trying not to notice her pronounced collar bones, or her now easily defined rib cage, she  _did_  notice the new addition to her person that she didn't recognize.

The silver necklace was beautiful. The thick chain held the pendant—an ovular bar, housing a triangular reddish-purple gemstone with artful gaps between silver and stone—just above her breast bone.

"What the bloody hell is  _this_?" she asked, her voice loud and sharp without her realizing as she reached around to unclasp the mysterious piece of jewelry.

"Oh, you've found your new little trinket, have you?" Thorfinn's voice came through the door.

She barely held in a growling sound as she eyed the door. "Are you joking! What is this?" And  _why_  wouldn't the clasp open?!

"That is an artifact I had made _just_ for you. There's a locator charm on it that'll allow me to find you anywhere in the world. Don't waste your energy trying to remove it; the clasp has been magically sealed, and an unbreakable charm placed on the chain and pendant."

"That is all  _very_  disturbing!"

His tone made her picture that he was shrugging as he said, "It's actually as much for your protection as it is for keeping track of you."

"My  _protection_? You can't be serious." She was still trying to unclasp it, hoping he'd overestimated the charms on it.

"Oh, Princess, if you only understood the situation better."

"What's  _that_  supposed to mean?"

"Part of our chat later. Go wash up, already."

Her shoulders slumped at the brush off. Aware the only way she'd get him to talk further would be to open the door and continue face-to-face—something she refused to do like  _this_ —she turned her attention to the tub and switched on the overhead faucet.

Sparing a moment, Hermione picked up her beaded bag from where it had fallen out of her boot as she'd kicked them off. She tucked it into one of the waiting bathrobe's deep pockets.

The steaming water as she stepped beneath the spray felt  _so_ good on her tired muscles and aching bones that she had to bite her lip to hold in a moan. If he was still hovering outside the door, she didn't need him hearing any such sounds from her.

She took her time, washing her hair, scrubbing her skin. The pleasant, brisk scent of the soap relaxed her, making her hope nothing else taxing would happen today. It was only the late afternoon, and she was certain she could fall asleep standing up, just now.

Then her heel slid in the soapy water, tearing a surprised shriek from her throat as her feet went out from under her. She landed hard against the side of the tub.

The pain made her stomach churn, and she couldn't be arsed to care about her current state of sopping wet undress as Thorfinn burst through the door to see what had happened.

His bewildered gaze on the witch who was trying—with a clearly pained expression on her face—to reach for a towel from the shelf, he couldn't even get the entire word out as he asked, "Wha—?"

"I slipped," she said, the words so simply and quietly stated that there was an almost childlike quality to her response.

Broad shoulders slumping, he rolled his eyes. "Can't leave you alone for five minutes, can I?"

"Believe me . . . ." She continued in her attempt to grab a towel. "I  _really_  wish that weren't so."

The wizard held in a sigh as he crossed the room, fully ignoring her death-glare as he sat on his heels beside the tub. Snatching the towel she'd been reaching for, he opened it across his lap.

Even in her haze of pain and exhaustion, Hermione did  _not_  like this look of this. "No, no! Thorfinn Rowle, don't you  _dare_!"

He was amused by the fuss she tried to put up as he leaned into the tub and pulled her out. Depositing the unhappy witch in his lap, he wrapped her in the towel.

He found her apparent shock that he did no more than that before scooping her up and standing equally amusing. Before leaving the room, he angled her toward the shelf so that she could grab the bathrobe.

Again, she couldn't mask her shock at his human—like behavior. There'd been a time when she was honestly convinced that behind closed doors, the burly wizard behaved something like a gorilla might.

Bringing her into the room, he dropped her onto the bed. "Dry off, then find your way to the kitchen. And see if you can manage it  _without_ hurting yourself, again."

If she had a bit more strength, she might've tried to find something to throw at him as he exited the room, laughing at his own joke. Or at her obvious irritation over said joke, it was difficult to tell which with him.

Left alone, she moved delicately as she shifted the towel around her body to dry herself. Without a wand, she did what she could to dry her hair by hand.

Lifting herself from the bed, she let the towel drop to look herself over. By some miracle, there didn't appear to be any bruising from her spill in the tub. She let out a relieved sigh at that—she had enough marks on her body, as it was.

* * *

Hermione made her way down the stairs on careful footsteps. Though she could've gotten a change of clothes from her beaded bag, she was instead wrapped in the thick bathrobe, and not caring if that sort of thing might be frowned upon in a pure-blood house. Despite her circumstances, this was  _the_ most comfortable she'd been since before the War.

The plush carpet that ran the length of the steps and down through the main floor of the house felt wonderful beneath her bare feet.

She wanted to explore, to poke around a bit—to hope that the house had a library. Yet, she wasn't certain she had the energy to put up with whatever her captor might do if she disobeyed the simple instruction to find the kitchen.

Her personal mission of  _find the library_  would have to wait.

Looking toward the foyer, she followed the main floor in the other direction. Bypassing rooms that were probably cozy and interesting—sitting room, drawing room, whatever else antiquated estate homes like this held—she made her way through an intimidatingly large dining room that felt strangely  _off_ from the rest of the architecture, due to all the dark wood furnishings and accents.

On the far wall was a set of double doors, one standing open a jar. Voices came from just inside, and she held back a moment to listen.

"What is it you even plan on doing with her?"

Hermione's face lit up at the voice. Even after not seeing the other witch for a few years, she still recognized Reina Rowle's angelic tones. Different as night from day, she and Thorfinn were. The sweet-natured, statuesque Hufflepuff had been year ahead of Hermione, and about the only student versed, and naturally skilled enough in Charms to assist  _Hermione Granger_  in getting a handle on some particularly tricky lessons in the subject.

"You know I've always wanted a personal servant to wait on me hand and foot."

Hermione scowled, but there were worse things to use a prisoner for, she supposed.

"Finnie," Reina said, her tone scolding—the other witch imagined the blonde shaking her head.

"I'm sorry," he said, sounding as though he was speaking around a mouthful of food. "Would you rather I planned on using her to suck—"

" _Finnie!_ " Embarrassed laughter bubbled out of the poor girl as she yelled at him.

Hermione stepped into the room, aware her cheeks were probably bright red from the way Thorfinn's brows rose as he smirked at her. She ignored him and turned to meet Reina's blue eyes.

"Hermione, it's good to see you're all right after . . . everything. Please, sit." The Hufflepuff gestured to a seat at the kitchen table, a small bowl of soup and a cup of tea set before it.

"Oh,  _God,_  thank you," Hermione said, her millions of questions currently forgotten as she hurried to the seat and immediately dug into her food.

Reina twisted her fingers anxiously, shrugging as she watched the other witch eat. "I know you've not been eating well—Finnie told me how much weight you've lost—so I kept the portion small. I hope that's all right. But don't worry, I'll have you back to a proper appetite in no time."

Hermione nodded, enjoying the simple warmth of the soup in her belly as she reached to take a sip of tea. There wasn't a lot of food before her, true, but other than the bowl from the pub last night, this was probably the largest meal she'd had in a long while.

Tired and comfortable as she already was, her captor might actually have to carry her away from the table once she finished eating. And she didn't honestly care about that, just now, because there was something kind of amusing to think that at least she wouldn't have to worry about climbing those stairs.

She could feel the Rowles watching her as she ate. Lifting her gaze from the bowl, she looked to Thorfinn and then Reina.

"So," she started between bites, "you're going to nurse me back to health?"

"Yes," Reina said, pulling out the chair closest to Hermione's and sitting down.

"And then what?"

Reina didn't answer, dropping her gaze to her hands, clasped before her on the table.

"I heard what he said."

"And I meant it." Thorfinn pushed away the fresh baked loaf of bread he'd been picking at. Dusting off his hands, he folded his arms across his chest. "When you're the _you_  I remember, you're going to be my personal servant."

"You didn't go to all this trouble to have a witch play house elf to you," Hermione said, her eyes holding his.

A smirk curved his mouth.

"So why?"

"You've dealt me a great deal of humiliation, Princess. It's the best way I can think to repay the favor without turning my own sister against me."

Hermione dropped her spoon, straightening up as she shook her head. "Humiliation? This can't be about all those times at Hogwarts."

His broad shoulders shook as he chuckled. Pushing away from the counter, he rounded the table to stand at her shoulder, forcing her to tip her head back to maintain eye contact. "Oh, no. Although, if you like, I can certainly tack all that on. You did make quite a habit of catching me in sordid circumstances."

"Well, maybe you shouldn't have kept getting  _into_  sordid circumstances for me to find you in!"

"So you _did_  seek me out on purpose to get me in trouble," he said, his brows drawing together—he'd always suspected as much.

"I did not! It's not  _my_  fault if you can't keep your voice down when you're shagging some random slag in a broom cupboard."

"I think I'll go check on Uncle," Reina interjected in a small voice as she slipped from her chair and disappeared through the doors.

Hermione didn't have time to ask about their uncle before she found herself alone with Thorfinn.

"You're missing the point. I already said this isn't to do with some nosy little first year ruining my _last_  year at Hogwarts." He set his jaw—if she kept this up, he wasn't going to have the patience to wait for Reina to nurse her back to health. "Maybe you'll recall a tacky little Muggle café. Some infuriating little witch, with a bad habit of sticking her nose where it  _doesn't_  belong, cast a memory charm on Dolohov and me."

Her brow furrowed as she stared up at him. Certainly, she recalled what he was talking about. "But I don't understand. The only way to break a memory charm is . . . ." A chill ran over her skin as she realized. "Oh, no."

"Torture," he answered for her with a nod. "The only way to break a memory charm is through torture. So if I  _remember_ you placing the memory charm on me  _. . . ._ Well, put two and two together, Princess."

She lowered her gaze from his, then. "I had no idea they would do that to you."

His expression tightened. He didn't like that she sounded genuinely upset about it. How  _dare_ she be upset over the fates of her enemies! Maybe _this_  was why Potter fell after all that fight he'd put up.

"And so, now I own you.  _Legally._  You are bound to do what I say, when I say." He visibly attempted to calm himself as she brought her attention back to him. "Don't disobey, and I won't cause you further humiliation than that."

" _Further_  humiliation?" She didn't like that sound of that, but she couldn't help the note of doubt in her voice.

"Huh," he uttered the sound with a surprised grin as he shook his head. "I don't know if you've realized it, Princess, but you've got it pretty good for a prisoner of war. My sister to care for you, a roof over your head that's far away from Dementors, and even your  _own_  warm bed to sleep in. But, if you push me . . . ."

Hermione forced a gulp down her throat at the way he let his voice trail off.

Leaning over her, he sank his fingers into the hair at the back of her head. Thorfinn curled his hand into a fist, holding her tight, as he whispered in her ear, "Push me, and you might find yourself sleeping at the foot of my bed like a  _proper_ little pet."

He relinquished his hold on her and turned, exiting the kitchen. "I'll return when you've had enough time to finish eating," he said as he stepped through the door.

Breathing in, deep and shuddering, before exhaling slowly, Hermione stared into her bowl of soup. She didn't know what was worse, that she absolutely believed him . . . .

Or that she couldn't seem to stop thinking about his warm breath on her throat as he'd whispered his threat.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

_His fingers curled into a fist in her hair, holding her tight. Lips brushing against her ear, he whispered, "Push me, and you might find yourself sleeping at the foot of my bed, like a_  proper _little pet."_

_She shuddered in his grasp, a tingling warmth curling through her as he leaned just a bit lower, still._

_He dragged the very edge of his teeth along her throat, the tip of his tongue darting out to flick and trace over her pulse in a wet line._

* * *

Hermione started awake, immediately blinking her bleary eyes to clear them. The bedroom she'd been brought to earlier swam into focus around her.

_A dream? Oh, thank_  God _!_ She was too busy being relieved that she'd only imagined that to worry on the fact that she'd just dreamed about Throfinn Rowle nipping and lapping at her throat.

But what if that  _had_  happened? The last thing she remembered was sitting at the table, exhaustion sinking into her bones as she finished the last spoonful of the delicious soup Reina had made.

And now she was  _here_  . . . and Thorfinn had said he'd return to the kitchen after she'd had time to finish . . . .

She turned her head, taking in the other side of the bed. The covers were not so much as rumpled. Lifting the blankets over her, she gave herself a look. Her robe was wrapped snuggly around her body, the belt still securely tied; shifting just a little told her the knickers she'd slipped on after drying from her mess of a shower were still in place.

"You're awake, good," Reina's voice cut into the room, startling Hermione. "Oh, sorry, I just . . . ." She pushed the door open a bit further, revealing a tea service cart.

Hermione brightened at the sight of a covered plate and a tea pot, two cups upside-down upon the tray. That could only mean the other witch planned to have tea with her while she ate.

"No, no, it's fine, really," Hermione said, pushing herself to sit up, finally. "How long was I asleep?"

Reina pushed the cart up to the side of the bed and busied herself with pouring them each a cup of tea. "About eighteen hours. You needed the rest though," she tacked on that second part when a look of concern flooded the other witch's face.

"I, um, I don't remember how I got up here."

"Not surprised. You fell asleep at the table. Finnie carried you up here and then left to answer a summons from You Know Who."

Hermione darted her gaze about the room. So, that little dream  _was_  solely her imagination. Fan- _bloody_ -tastic. "Is he still out?"

Reina shook her head, uncovering the dish before she lifted the tray from the cart and set it over Hermione's lap. "He arrived home so early this morning, it was still dark out. Been sleeping since."

The blonde picked up her tea cup sat on the edge of the bed. A long few moments of silence passed as she watched her patient picking at the carefully portioned scrambled eggs and toast.

"If you feel like you're up to eating more when you've finished, please let me know. I'll be happy to make you extra."

Hermione nodded as she took a nibble of toast and washed it down with a generous sip of tea. "How do you deal with knowing what he does?"

Reina met Hermione's gaze—something in her look said that not many people asked that. The realization was a little painful to the Gryffindor witch; did other people assume she condoned her brother's path simply  _because_  he was her brother?

Or, maybe they were afraid to acknowledge that  _anyone's_  loved one could find themselves in Voldemort's grasp, willing or not.

"I mostly try not to think about it. It's not as though he tells me what goes on when he's summoned. In fact . . . ." Reina shrugged and sipped her tea. "He tries  _not_  to tell me."

"I'm sorry," Hermione said, dropping her gaze back to her meal. "Maybe I shouldn't have asked."

"No, it's fine. It's just . . . . It's been just Finnie and me for so long, when we were younger he just sort of fell in with the people he knew Father would've wanted him to, and he's been there ever since." Reina shook her head and set down her cup, going on before Hermione could question the statement. "Don't get me wrong, I'm not pardoning his choices, but I won't say I'm unaware that sometimes, the only reason what's left of our family has survived is  _because_  he's a Death Eater."

Hermione couldn't help but frown. How terrible their reality had become that Reina's line of thinking made perfect sense. She recognized pragmatic thinking when she heard it.

But she wasn't certain she wanted to keep at this particular topic—Reina had no choice but to humanize her own brother, that didn't mean Hermione had to. "So, um, it's not just you and Thorfinn, though, is it? You mentioned your uncle?"

"Yes, he mostly stays in the other wing of the house. Father was quite a bit older than our mother, so Uncle is  _up there_." The blonde witch reclaimed her tea cup for another sip. "He's quite childlike most days, now. But when he's lucid . . . ."

Hermione's brows drew together as she ate the last bite of her breakfast. "When he's lucid?"

"Uncle was  _not_ a very pleasant man. He never quite forgave Finnie."

While Hermione was certain there were many things Thorfinn Rowle had done over the course of his life that were  _beyond_ unforgivable, she couldn't imagine what qualified in that capacity for people who  _wanted_  a Death Eater in the family. Still, she couldn't help her curiosity.

"What did he do?"

Reina gave a barely perceptible shrug, a sad smile twisting her lips. "He was born."

Hermione nearly dropped her tea cup right into her empty plate. "What?"

"As I said, we were young when our parents died—contracted Dragon Pox—and Uncle, for a few, short years, had control of our family estate. But only until Finnie came of legal age, of course. As the son of the legal heir, control went to him." Reina sighed as she took the tray from Hermione's lap and set it back on the cart. "Uncle never let him forget that it would've all been  _his_ , had he not been born. I often think that if he were a braver man, he might've tried to murder Finnie when we were still children."

"How do you put up with caring for such an awful person?"

"Well, like I told you, most days he's not himself. He's actually kind of sweet and doddering. Then there's the days he's himself, but he's still not quite  _right_." Reina frowned, shaking her head. "Mistakes me for our old house elf, Penner, and orders me about. He hasn't even realized the poor thing passed away."

Hermione's shoulders drooped. She forced her gaze to the sunlit window on the other side of the room as she took her last sip of tea. This was certainly more depressing of a conversation than she'd hoped to have with the usually bubbly Hufflepuff.

"Enough about this." Reina took the cup from Hermione's hands and set it upon the tray beside her own. "You must have a million questions about what's happened since you've been in hiding. I'm afraid it's not a much cheerier subject, however."

There was only one question Hermione needed the answer to, just now. Anything else could wait. "What happened to the other members of Dumbledore's Army?"

The color drained from Reina's face immediately.

Hermione wished she could take back her question, but she had to know what was happening to her friends.

"Um . . . ." Reina cleared her throat and forced a sniffle. "The surviving members, some of them are still wanted. Neville Longbottom replaced Harry as Undesirable Number One. You were number two, until you were caught, now Kingsley Shacklebolt is number two. Most of the Weasleys are on the list, though their father is in Azkaban—"

" _Most_  of the Weasleys?"

Reina dropped her gaze to the floor. "Molly Weasley was executed by You Know Who, and Ron was . . . ."

Hermione swallowed hard. Her heart felt like it had stopped beating in her chest. "And Ron was?"

"He fell in battle, shortly after Harry."

She'd known. Hermione had known, somehow, that Ron hadn't survived. But she'd spent the last near-year hoping that her gut was wrong on that.

Had spent that time stopping herself from wondering if she could've done something to save him, had she gone back. Never mind that the sheer matter of  _time_  meant he'd have already been dead while she was running back toward the castle. She'd have saved  _no one_ , but the realization didn't make the news hurt any less.

"I'm so sorry, Hermione. This has got to be really hard for you to hear, I know how close you were with the Weasleys."

Nodding, Hermione let out a trembling breath. "But the rest of the family, they're alive? Arthur is in Azkaban, but the others?"

"They're all still  _dangerous_  wanted criminals, of course," the blonde witch said, smirking over the word in a show of disagreement with the term.

"And the others? I heard one of the Aurors say they were sent somewhere called the Umbridge Home."

Reina's brow furrowed and she shifted uncomfortably where she sat. "We've discussed enough unpleasantness already. Maybe we should leave that for another—"

"Reina, please." Hermione reached out, gently grasping one of Reina's hands in her own. "It's not going to be any  _less_ unpleasant, then, no matter when we discuss it.  _Please_ , my friends are there. I need to know."

Tipping her head back, Reina inhaled sharply through her nostrils. "Okay." She nodded, but forced her eyes closed—she didn't think she could hold the other witch's gaze as she explained that atrocious place. "Okay. Well . . . following the  _Dark Lord's_  victory, Dolores Umbridge announced a plan to rebuild Wizarding Britain's population. She established a  _facility_  called the Umbridge Home for Young Ladies. It's horrible, Hermione, no better than a breeding factory. Anyone who is so much as overheard  _speaking_  against You Know Who could find themselves punished by having a daughter thrown in there."

That was  _the_  most appalling thing Hermione had ever heard—though, this  _was_ Dolores Umbridge, so she couldn't honestly say she was surprised. "And so they're just . . . in there forever, being—being . . . ." Oh _, God_ , she couldn't even say the word!

Reina nodded, leaning forward to pop her elbows on her knees and pressing a palm to her forehead. "They _are_  being . . . . But not forever, oh  _no_. See they have to give birth to twelve— _twelve_ —babies, and those babies have to survive to their first birthday. That's the only way they  _earn_  their release."

Hermione's bottom lip trembled and suddenly there were tears spilling from her eyes. The hiccuping sob that tore from her throat as the reality of what her friends were going through crashed over her sounded strange and distant to her own ears.

"Oh!" Reina pushed the cart out of the way and pulled the other witch into her arms, sobbing, herself. "I  _said_  I didn't want to tell you!"

"Why doesn't anyone  _help_ them?"

At the garbled question, the blonde sat back. She busied herself with fussing with Hermione's wild hair in an oddly mothering gesture. "All . . . all the wizards in any position to help are too busy utilizing the place for exactly what that  _bitch_  meant it for."

"That's vile."

"Yeah. Ministry employees, Death Eaters—"

"Death Eaters?" Hermione looked from the witch before her to the door of her room, and back. "You mean your brother goes to that awful—"

"Sweet Merlin,  _no_!" Reina let out a bubbly, relieved laugh. "Rabastan Lestrange dragged him there  _once_. Never again."

"How can you be sure?" Hermione hoped the question didn't come across as mean—it felt mean, but she didn't intend it that way. But then, didn't most people have blinders on in these sorts of situations when it came to family?

"My brother does many awful things I'd rather go to my grave not knowing about, but this sort of thing . . . ." Reina pursed her lips, holding in a sigh. "Rabastan came here, insisting Thorfinn accompany him—something about how he still couldn't get Lucius Malfoy to agree, and one of them was  _going_  to go with him. Finnie Apparated back home less than five minutes later. Seemed like he was 'bout ready to throw up. He couldn't even look at me for the next few days."

Well, Hermione supposed it was a small comfort that her captor was a little  _less_  of a monster than she'd always thought. As she and Reina calmed, Hermione resolved that she was  _going_ to kill that vile toad.

Not that she had the faintest clue how, or even when, she would be able to accomplish what had— _very_  suddenly and seriously—become her life's goal. But the logistics didn't matter just now, not nearly as much as her certainty that she would be the _end_  of Dolores Umbridge.

* * *

The first complete week of her captivity, Hermione had the luxury of barely leaving her room, unless she felt up to it. Reina, despite urging her to come down at eat her meals in the dining room with them, was content to let her take meals in her room. With her caretaker's constant doting—and insistence that sweets were a good thing—Hermione was certain she was already starting to put some meat back on her bones.

She'd never again take for granted what a simple luxury it was to be able to eat when she was hungry.

Much to Hermione's relief, there  _was_  a library, and it was wonderfully extensive. Each afternoon, after lunch, she would venture over there to exchange the books from the previous day.

She was a little surprised how often she found Thorfinn in there. And a little vexed to realize how irritating trying to get a book down from a high shelf was without use of a wand.

It was during one of these moments that Thorfinn nearly caused her to jump out of her skin.

The book she wanted was just beyond the tips over her fingers. She stood on her toes, and stretched and wriggled. Finally, she gave up, unhappily eyeing the rolling ladder against the wall—clear at the other end of lengthy shelves. She hated the idea of retrieving the bloody thing, just for a book that wasn't all that far up, anyway.

Suddenly someone was behind her, reaching over her to slip the book from it's place. She'd thought she was alone in the still, silent room!

Hermione backpedaled only to bump into the person, a startled noise bubbling out of her.

The sound of Thorfinn chuckling behind her—never mind the feel of it rumbling against her shoulders—had her reining in the sorest temptation to turn around and give him a good smack. "Bloody hell, Thorfinn!"

"Oh, I'm sorry, Princess. Did you _not_  want this book? I can always put it back."

She snatched the text from his hand and strode right back out of the room. His laughter at her indignation followed her, and she reminded herself that turning back around to throw the book at her captor would probably be a bad thing.

* * *

The second week was marked by Reina's announcement that she would teach Hermione to cook. Hermione wasn't opposed to the idea, but she'd never really put much thought into the matter, before.

This also gave her another thing to fill up her days.

Realizing that she was being taught to cook so she could prepare meals for Thorfinn—she was to be his servant in a month or two, after all, wasn't she? Preparing his meals only made sense—was an unpleasant moment. But, his sister managed to make the lessons fun, and  _quite_ tasty enough, that Hermione found herself more and more willing to live in the moment instead of worry about eventualities.

Every so often, when her back was turned, he'd slip into the kitchen behind her and sample whatever was simmering upon the stovetop. Like living with an incredibly overgrown child, she thought. Hermione warned him that if he kept this up, she'd poison the dishes to teach  _him_  a lesson.

His soured face—along with his assertion that if she didn't pay closer attention to Reina's teachings, she might well poison him by accident—did  _not_  amuse her.

* * *

As the second week ended, Hermione bumped into their uncle. She didn't even know his name, so she hadn't been quite certain what to say to the elderly wizard.

Before she could even try to get a word out, however, he called her _Penner_ , and demanded she fetch him a fresh bottle of fire whiskey.

Uncertain how to respond, she simply did as the old man asked. When it seemed he might make further demands, she got herself out of the situation by pretending she'd made some terrible error, and was off to go punish herself for it.

After she told the siblings later of the encounter, they looked at one another for a long while.

Finally, Reina shook her head. "Making up a catastrophe to run off and punish yourself? And he believed that?"

"Of course, he did. Nothing more sadly common to a pure-blood wizard than a clumsy elf."

Thorfinn frowned, his expression as miserable as his sisters. "Why didn't we ever think of that?"

Reina only laughed and went back to the lovely plate of biscuits she and Hermione had slaved over. "Just think . . . hours of my life I'll never get back."

Despite the knowledge of what her future held, there was a strange comfort in the house—a balance between the three of them that made her a bit relieved some other Death Eater hadn't thought to claim her. What an odd way to think, but Reina's news of the outside world had shown her quite clearly that there really  _were_ worse fates than playing maid and cook to Thorfinn Rowle.

Whatever the case, she was certain none of those other Death Eaters would suffer waiting until she was back to a healthy state, before using her for God only knew what.

* * *

A few days into her third week, as she was assisting Reina to clear away the plates from dinner, a bell rang through the house. All three of the dining room's occupants looked at one another.

Reina slipped over to a window and peeked toward the front of the house. "You'd better go answer it, Finnie. It's Rabastan."

Hermione didn't like the way his eyes shot to her for the briefest moment—so quick, she thought if she blinked, she'd have missed it—before he rose from his seat and exited the room. Reina was at her side so fast, she didn't have time to think on that fleeting glance.

"As long as that man is in this house, you stick close to Thorfinn. Do you understand?"

Not  _once_  had Hermione heard Reina call her brother  _Thorfinn_. The change-up was just jarring enough to alert Hermione to some unknown gravity to the situation.

"Okay."

Reina sighed, resting her hands on the other witch's shoulders. "Do you remember what I told you about Umbridge Home? The person who insisted on dragging Finnie there?"

Hermione's knees almost buckled at the memory.  _Rabastan Lestrange_.

"He's the sort of man who doesn't require a lady's invitation, or even her interest, if he decides himself interested in her."

Hermione didn't like that Reina's tone suggested she knew from experience. From the blonde's expression, she'd guess a  _friendly_ hand slipping into places where it wasn't welcome.

"So when I say stay close to Finnie,  _please_  believe I mean it for your safety."

Nodding, Hermione turned toward the door. "You're not going out there, are you?" she asked over her shoulder.

"Not unless the whole back of the house catches fire, no."

Shoulders slumping, the brown-eyed witch continued from the room and across the main floor. Maybe she could slip up to her own room and none would be the—

"And  _there_  she is," she heard an unfamiliar voice call out from the study. "Just the creature I was hoping to meet."

Forcing a gulp down her throat, Hermione schooled her features and turned toward the speaker. He lingered—or perhaps  _lurked_  was a more fitting term—just inside the doorway.

Rabastan Lestrange. Every inch of him was perfectly cut and fit and polished . . . . There was some undeniably arrogant air about him. She imagined that was on account of the way he angled his jaw, as though he was giving everything around him an appraising look.

Or perhaps that was only because he was looking at  _her_  that way.

As he swept out to greet her, she caught sight of Thorfinn, right over his shoulder. The blond wizard was on his heels, but Rabastan was near enough to close the distance before Thorfinn reached them.

He caught Hermione's hand in his and brought it to his lips sooner than she could react. "Mm, what a fine pet you probably are, too," he said, his mouth moving against her knuckles before he let her hand drop.

Reina's warning pounding in her head—and the simple awareness that he had a wand and she did  _not_ —Hermione forced a smile and nodded, careful to keep her mouth shut.

Thorfinn crooked a finger at her, and she hated how grateful she was as she scurried over to his side.

"Let's not allow that fine bottle you brought to go to waste, Rabastan."

"Ah, yes, of course."

Hermione shuddered as the man in question slipped past them, his  _very_ unwelcome hand brushing her bum as he went by.

As they all sat—Hermione clinging so close to her captor, she wondered if it might not be easier to simply sit in his lap—Thorfinn leaned over her.

"He says he's here to discuss some recent debacle. He's really here because he's curious about  _you_ ," he whispered, an edge of caution in his tone.

" _So_ rude, Thorfinn," Rabastan said in a scolding tone as he poured some fire whiskey into three—she noticed  _three_ —waiting glasses. "You've got all the time in the world to play with your tasty little pet, you can't afford me an hour or two? Makes me think you're just showing off."

Hermione's gaze shot right to Rabastan. He was staring at her. She understood it must appear that she and Thorfinn were having some sort of intimate moment. But he didn't look insulted . . . he looked  _hungry_.

Thorfinn pulled back, reaching for two of the glasses. He handed one to Hermione and then settled against the back of the sofa.

"So," Thorfinn said after taking a long sip. "Tell me."

"You know that mission last week? The one you were so angry to have missed?"

The blond nodded, taking another sip.

Hermione nursed her own glass with slow, careful swigs, perfectly content to melt into the woodwork.

"Well, be relieved. It was handed off to Theodore. They'd received word of a meeting of Undesirables in some Muggle factory in London. Don't know what the fool was doing, but he managed to let  _every_  one of them slip through his fingers."

She hid her face behind her drink. A tiny bubble of joy welled in the center of her chest at that news, but she didn't  _dare_  let either of the Death Eaters sitting so very close to her notice the quick smile that lighted her lips in response.

"What was his punishment for  _that_?"

Rabastan shrugged, polishing off his drink and pouring himself another. "I don't think the Dark Lord has decided, yet. It's tricky with a man like Theodore. You know the preferred method, and Nott doesn't have anything he truly cares for."

"Suppose that's an enviable trait, under the circumstances," Thorfinn said, reaching for the bottle, himself.

Hermione watched her captor immediately polish of his first drink, with the bottle still in hand, and then pour his second. She was pretty sure she didn't want to know what they meant by _the preferred method_  if it was a punishment which involved what a person  _truly_ cared for.

"Speaking of things one cares for," Rabastan started, something in his tone making Hermione's skin crawl. "Where is your lovely sister this evening?"

The way Thorfinn curled the hand that was wedged between them into a fist was not lost on Hermione.

"Miss Rowle was feeling a bit ill, this evening, I'm afraid."

Rabastan turned his gaze on the witch, so demure-looking, seated beside her  _very_  lucky owner. "That  _is_  a shame. Rather like a ray of sunshine, that Reina."

Hermione had the sense that the only thing stopping him from saying anything _obviously_  lewd was that he was smart enough—and not near drunk enough—to not want to see just how much it would take to push Thorfinn. It was very hard to get a read on Rabastan Lestrange.

"I suppose it's just as well, as I'm not certain a sweet soul like hers would appreciate this." From his robes he withdrew beautifully wrapped parcel. "I have a gift for you, for both of you, I suppose."

Swallowing hard, Hermione didn't dare look at Thorfinn. She'd already spoken when she shouldn't have, and she didn't want to know if he was relieved or angered with her for stepping in.

"A gift for both of us? I'm not certain I understand your meaning."

Rabastan shrugged as he placed the parcel on the table between them and pushed it toward the other wizard. "Well, you are aware the Dark Lord declared that—in the interest of allowing the citizens of  _his_  Wizarding Britain to feel safe—you are not allowed to have your little pet out in public unless she is properly tethered to you."

She nearly dropped her glass.  _Properly tethered?_  What the bloody hell did  _that_  mean? Instead, she knocked back the rest of the drink she'd been so slowly and carefully sipping in one quick swig.

Rabastan chuckled at the witch's painfully obvious embarrassment. "There's been talk that the reason you've not brought her out in public to show her off, yet—as any proud wizard in your place would—is because you've been perhaps too busy, between looking after your uncle and seeing to your pet, to procure any such tether. So I took the liberty."

Hermione did not like the sound of  _that._

Taking the box, Thorfinn unwrapped it and pulled off the top. His brows drew upward, in a mask of being impressed.

But something in his expression told her he was forcing the expression.

He reached inside and pulled out choker attached to a black chain, a matched cuff on the other end. The larger of the two black leather bands was beautifully adorned with sparkling rubies, but the prettiness didn't mask its purpose.

"Well, go on, then. Try it on her."

Hermione closed her eyes, willing herself to tip her head back and shake her wild hair out of the way. Thorfinn had never once mentioned taking her out in public—it hadn't occurred to her until this moment—and now she knew why.

He probably didn't want Reina to know the conditions of such a thing. Hermione might just be a servant to him, but he _cared_ what his sister thought of him.

She felt the leather close securely around her throat and opened her eyes. Thorfinn's gaze met hers for the briefest second before he slipped the cuff around his wrist.

Never had the idea that she was thought of as another human being's  _pet_  been more clear. What wasn't clear was what might be going though that human being's mind, just now, because she could not read the expression that had flickered across his face in that fleeting glance they'd shared.

"My, my," Rabastan said, a wicked grin curving his lips. "That  _does_  look lovely on you, but then, I've always known what looks good on a woman."

Hermione averted her eyes. She was truly at a loss for what to say or do in this situation.

"Now, you'll have no choice but to show off your prize a bit more, no?" Rabastan shrugged, looking quite pleased with himself. "Just a few of the right enchantments, and it will be precisely what the Dark Lord required."

Thorfinn nodded, wrapping a bit of chain around his fist. "It will do nicely, thank you."

The rest of the evening passed with a little small talk, but Hermione couldn't focus on it. She sipped a second drink, and tried not to think about the lovely  _gift_  still around her neck. She was more than aware that Thorfinn was in no rush to remove it, as Rabastan might read too much into such an action.

That was when she remembered that little snippet of conversation—the one that was supposed to be discussed  _later_ , in a chat that never ended up happening.

About how little she understood the situation; about how the fancy locator charm hidden beneath her shirt was for  _her_  protection, somehow.

Finally, Rabastan had pushed up to stand. Hermione hopped to her feet before any yank on her leash could do it for her.

The dark-haired wizard helped himself to another quick feel of Hermione's bum on the way to the door. Again her skin crawled, and it was all she could do to remind herself not to turn and slap the man.

He bid them a good evening and disappeared into the night.

Once the doors closed behind him, she had no idea how her legs didn't give out from under her.

Without a word, Thorfinn turned her to face him. He wouldn't meet her gaze as he slipped his hands around her neck to unclasp the choker. Removing the cuff, he tossed the tether carelessly aside.

Pivoting on his heel, he started for the staircase.

"Wait," she said, wincing at the way his broad shoulder hunched.

"What?"

"You said the charm you put on me is for my protection. You never did get around to telling me what you meant by that."

On the foot of the stairs, he turned back to meet her gaze. "After the dust settled, after the Dark Lord starting reshaping our world, stories of everything you did leading up to the War, all the ways you helped Potter  _almost_  win surfaced. You became something of a legend, and I became envied for having the quick thinking to have asked for you, first."

She found herself walking closer to him as he spoke, her still shaky legs moving of their own volition.

"I received more than one . . .  _friendly_  word of caution." He stepped back down, towering over her as he continued. "That if something happens to me, if you wander too far, if you have a sudden, irrepressible fit of Gryffindor courage and run off, there would be no shortage of Death Eaters waiting to swoop in and snatch you away."

"But you said  _legally_ —"

"Legally you're mine. But we're not talking legality, Princess. If you run, and of _them_  catches you, you think they wouldn't be above secreting you away somewhere, so you might never be found, again?"

Hermione swallowed a sudden lump of fear. He actually  _was_  keeping her safe.

Yet, before she could think further on it, he turned again and started back up the stairs. "Go to bed, Princess."

An hour later, Reina found her sitting on the bottom step, staring numbly at the wall. She hadn't even realized how much time had passed as the other witch slipped an arm around her and pulled her to her feet.

As she started up the stairs with Reina's assistance, she thought—for what was probably the fifth time in that past hour—that she  _never_ going to figure out Thorfinn Rowle.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

"A  _leash?!_  Tell me you're joking!"

Reina's angry shout— _very_  un-Reina-like, in both volume and tone—tore Hermione from sleep the next morning.

Thorfinn's response, whatever that was, she couldn't quite make out. His voice was not nearly as loud as his sister's, so the words were unclear, but she could  _still_  hear the rumble of it through the house.

Frowning, Hermione sat up slowly. She rubbed the heel of her palm against her eyes as she pushed back her covers and climbed out of bed. This wasn't precisely how she wanted to wake up, but then, there were always worse ways.

_Hmm_. She was beginning to think she should keep a journal cataloging all the ways in which her life could be considerably worse. This way, when she was tempted to bemoan her current circumstances, she could look it over and easily remind herself that she could be waking to a  _much_ more unpleasant reality every morning.

Shaking her head, she pulled on the dressing gown Reina had lent her over her shabby Muggle pyjamas—such an odd contrast, the pleasant silken garment atop her threadbare flannel bottoms and cotton shirt. Hermione stuffed her feet into her pair of—also loaned—fuzzy slippers and left her room.

* * *

By the time she arrived in the kitchen, where their motley trio usually partook of a gloriously informal breakfast each morning, the siblings were not speaking. In fact, they seemed to be pointedly ignoring one another—casting their angry gazes into their dishes as they picked at a lovely looking breakfast casserole.

Despite the heavy feeling in the air, Hermione's mouth watered and her empty stomach growled at the sight of the fluffy egg, veg, and diced ham combination. She was also content not to acknowledge the black leather collar and chain, with its deceptively pretty rubies, that an unhappy Reina had obviously tossed on the table, just yet.

The way Thorfinn had so carelessly discarded it last night, it was no shock his sister had tripped over the awful thing.

Reina offered her a quick grin and then returned her attention to the food before her. Thorfinn didn't even glance up, his attempt to pluck one piece of ham, in particular, from his eggs clearly being a  _very_ captivating endeavor.

Picking up the plate that was set and waiting for her, Hermione served herself some of the casserole—a  _much_  heartier helping that she'd been able to manage until recently, she was happy to note—and settled in her chair. She took a large sip of the coffee Reina had thoughtfully prepared for her.

"I see you found Rabastan's lovely  _gift_."

Reina actually let out a surprised laugh as she shook her head. Thorfinn dropped his fork loudly against his plate and fixed Hermione with a death glare.

Jumping a little at his expression, the Muggle-born witch shrugged and nodded toward the item in question. "I'm not the one who left it on the table beside breakfast."

Again shaking her head, Reina spoke from between clenched teeth. "I can't believe he thought _this_  was appropriate."

"I don't think he thought that, at all," Hermione said with a quick, mirthless laugh.

"It's not about appropriate or inappropriate. It's a  _dare_."

The witches exchanged a glance before both turning their attention to Thorfinn.

He looked at each of them, in turn, before retuning his gaze to his plate. Picking up his fork, the went back to stabbing at what was left of the food before him. "What he said last night, remember? That there's talk of how I've not been 'showing you off,' due to lack of a proper  _tether_?"

Hermione swallowed uncomfortably and nodded.

He took a bite, shaking his head as he chewed. "There's nothing Rabastan likes better than hearing himself talk—well, almost nothing, but I promised my sister I'd never discuss  _that_  particular topic in front of her, if I could help it. Anyway, he's probably bragged about that bloody thing to anyone who couldn't figure out how to get him to  _stop_  talking, which would be _everyone_."

"Oh, sweet Merlin, he's right," Reina said, her features pinching in a soured expression. "If Finnie keeps you out of the public eye  _now_ , it'll be conspicuous. The other Death Eaters might see it as something they can use against him."

Hermione understood, perfectly. She simply didn't like that she understood. She dropped her gaze to her food, eating in silence for a while.

All too clearly she recalled what Rabastan and Thorfinn had said about Voldemort's preferred method of punishment. Of course if his followers were given reason to believe Thorfinn  _actually_  cared about her, that would be something they'd try to turn to their advantage at the first chance.

Wouldn't they be shocked to know the only reason he only minded the idea of dragging her about like a disobedient puppy was that he didn't want to upset his sister? Holding in a sigh, Hermione simply shook her head to banish her thoughts, focusing on finishing her meal.

When she finally looked up from her empty plate, she noticed Reina giving her a slow, calculated once-over.

Giving a start, Hermione looked down at herself and then back to the other witch. "What?"

"Well, for your own safety, you  _have_  to be seen at least once wearing Rabastan's _gift_ , so there's no question; you're going to have to go out in public wearing that thing. It's an unpleasant thought, I know," Reina said, repressing a shudder—or  _trying_ to and failing. "But I will bet you anything that just as he must've bragged about the leash, he might  _also_  tell anyone who can't get him to shut up about seeing you in Muggle attire last night."

Hermione's brows pinched together. "So?"

"It's three weeks you've been here." Thorfinn's tone suggested that he knew where his sister's train of thought was headed, and didn't like it. "Rabastan visited, unannounced, last night, and saw you dressed in Muggle attire. That could be considered a sign that I'm coddling you."

Hermione sighed and nodded. "Which could be used against you." She didn't much fancy the idea of being harmed because it might be deemed a suitable punishment for her captor, if the dynamic between them was misinterpreted in such a way.

"Exactly." Reina spoke as she poured them all a fresh round of coffee. "So you will wash up, and Finnie will take you to buy some proper robes and dresses."

Hermione's brows shot up and Thorfinn turned a surprised look on his sister.

"I'll do  _what_?"

"Oh, stop," the blonde said with a dismissive wave of her free hand as she lifted her mug for a sip with the other. "Hermione will know what she actually  _needs_ to purchase—" She shot the other witch a meaningful look, that let Hermione realize she was referring to  _delicates_. "Robes and dresses are relatively straightforward garments. And, for anything I think she might be uncertain on, I'll make a list. You'll only have to stand there, looking like the big, menacing Death Eater you are and holding her leash."

Hermione bit her lip hard, hiding her face behind her coffee mug. She found it  _really_  hard not to laugh at Reina's flippant tone when she mentioned her brother's title— _and_ naturally imposing stature.

Thorfinn ignored the light moment. "You're not going with us?"

Recoiling in her seat, Reina turned a frown on her brother. "Are you mad?  _You_  might have to be seen dragging some poor witch around on a leash, but  _I_ don't have to be seen being mistaken for condoning it."

Thorfinn rolled his eyes so hard the lids fluttered. "Merlin, I hate you."

Jumping to her feet, her coffee mug in hand, Reina bounced over and dropped a kiss atop her brother's head. "No, you adore me. You just hate it when I'm right."

He scowled at the bubbly witch as she darted from the kitchen, presumably to draw up the shopping list she'd mentioned.

Alone with Thorfinn, Hermione lifted her gaze to his over the rim of her mug. He was watching her through narrowed eyes, his jaw squaring again and again.

Forcing a gulp, she set down her mug. "I'll go wash up then, shall I?"

Blue eyes closing in what seemed a pained expression, he nodded.

Without another word, she was out of her seat and heading upstairs. This was going to be an unpleasant enough experience without her going out of her way to irritate the  _big and menacing Death Eater._

* * *

Reina had pulled a proper winter cloak from her wardrobe and draped it around Hermione's shoulders before she saw the pair to the door. It wouldn't have done for her to be in her Muggle coat, of course, not with the fuss that was clearly being made about something as ridiculous as her attire.

Again, though, Hermione couldn't help but cave to the other witch's pragmatic thinking, even if she wasn't particularly happy about it.

After the door was closed behind them and they stood on the front steps of the Rowle home, Hermione closed her eyes and drew a deep breath. Turning toward Thorfinn, she tipped her head back and—as she'd done the night before—shook her wild hair out of his way.

She ignored that it seemed he couldn't meet her gaze as he secured the beautiful, but  _disturbing_ , item around her neck. The last thing she needed was to  _be_ one of the people misinterpreting the dynamic between them.

As he pulled her into his side to Apparate them, she realized something.

"Wait."

Frowning, he looked down at her. "What?"

Her jaw fell open a little as she raised her eyes to his. They were three weeks into February, March nearly upon them. Snow was falling over them, lighting atop his head and threading into his golden hair as the crystalline flakes melted. There was something infinitely more beautiful and wondrous about snow when one was safe, and had someplace warm to return to, she understood that, now.

So different from suffering the fear that snowfall could mean one might freeze to death during the night.

When she still didn't answer, his frown deepened. "You wanted something, Princess?"

Startled by her own sudden lack of focus, she shook her head. "Oh, sorry. I just, um, I just realized I've yet to see the house from the  _outside_."

Nodding his understanding—how odd that must feel, to live in a place and have n _o_ idea what it actually looked like—he nearly gestured for her to step away so she could have a look. Then he remembered that she was tethered to him.

Sighing, he let her step back from him, and walked with her far enough that she could take in the entire estate house.

Just like the inside, the home's exterior was unexpectedly sunny. Not a place where she would have ever imagined a Death Eater to reside. Her brows drew upward slowly as she examined the building again, and again, looking for some dark, unsightly blemish that might mar the image, that might hint at the life path of the property's rightful owner.

"Wow, it's so . . . ."

"Cheery?"

She nodded, her expression mystified.

"Family home, what're you going to do?"

At the flippant response, Hermione looked up at him. One corner of his lips twitched in an obvious attempt to hold in a chuckle.

She burst out laughing, just as much at the joke as at the relief that he'd joked on _purpose_ —possibly to take the edge off her anxiety about her  _stupid_ leash. "Oh, so what? If you had your choice, you'd string up bloody corpses along the exterior walls, I suppose?"

Thorfinn nodded, pursing his lips in thought as he let his gaze wander the structure. "Possibly. Might keep Rabastan from popping in ever again, for fear some of it might drip on his pretty robes."

Hermione laughed  _hard_. A good, boisterous, cleansing sound—not unlike the one she'd let loose while caged in the Ministry holding cells—at the image of Rabastan Lestrange panicking over ruined robes.

Once she calmed, he grabbed lifted his cuffed wrist, displaying the chain. "Ready?"

After a few more relaxed breaths, she nodded.

He pulled her into his side, again, and Apparated them from the Rowle Estate.

* * *

Hermione did surprisingly well ignoring the looks from the _fine_  citizens of Wizarding Britain as she walked along, a step behind Thorfinn. Close enough to not let him tug on her collar, even by accident, far enough to give the illusion that she was not going along of her own volition.

She wished that she could honestly say that was the case. Yet with her knowledge of the locator charm she wore—allowing Thorfinn to find her  _anywhere_ in the world—and what might happen to her if another Death Eater got a hold of her, made her pace  _very_  much a choice.

After many robes and dresses and fantastically frilly undergarments—which she sadly had no one to wear for, but wanted the simple luxury, all the same— were measured and ordered to be sent to the Rowle home, they promptly left the shop, again. She had no desire to be out like  _this_  any longer than necessary, and it seemed clear Thorfinn had no desire to stand about idly as women talked fashion for  _another_ 2 hours.

Though, the shop proprietor insisted on dressing Hermione appropriately before the witch left. While her captor was displeased with the delay that had stretched the _event_  from one hour to two, as it was, Hermione rather did like the pampering. She had so often taken the no-fuss path in things that the difference was nice.

Certainly Reina had doted on her, and might continue to do so after she started actually playing personal servant to Thorfinn, to take the edge off the reality of her role. Yet, somehow in the shop, with the pretty fabrics and the mirrors, and the brilliant, chatty witches waiting on her, it was  _different_.

Every once in a while, she peeked over the top of the barred curtain. Thorfinn was stuck just on the opposite side, thanks to her tether, and appeared to be trying everything in his power not to fall asleep as he stood, leaning against the wall beside the dressing room.

Finally stepping out into the main room of the shop, she sighed happily as she looked down at the lustrous, beautifully fitted crimson robes. With a matched winter cloak draped over her, she carried the snowy white one from Reina in her arms.

His broad shoulders slumped, he turned to look at her. "Are we quite finished now with this outing, Princess?"

"Careful, I might start wailing about hunger pangs and how you've not been feeding me when we get out into the street."

He scowled menacingly at her.

Hermione gave an instinctive little jump at the expression . . . . But honestly was surprised to find that she wasn't as intimidated by it as she would've been before her capture.

"Look," he said, speaking over his shoulder to her as he started toward the door of the shop. "My sister said new robes and such, we got you new robes and such. That's  _it_ , we're done. I am  _not_  taking you to eat anything while we're here."

"But . . . ." She started as they stepped out into the open street of Diagon Alley.

Eyes narrowing dangerously, he turned to look at her fully—towering over her, as per usual. His jaw was clenched tight as he echoed her. " _But_?"

"Fortescue's serves the  _loveliest_ hot chocolate in the winter," she said, unable to help a pout, the statement almost childlike. There was just something so wonderful and simple in the idea of drinking hot chocolate as she watched the snowflakes falling.

God, she couldn't believe how many simplicities it hadn't even occurred to her until  _now_  that she'd taken for granted. Even when she'd been on the run, she had been far too focused on surviving to think about how much she missed such mundane pleasures.

He opened his mouth to respond, but then shut it again. Shaking his head, he asked, his expression still harsh enough to kill, she was sure. "Has Reina been teaching you how to argue with me?"

With a deep breath, Hermione drew herself up to her full height, holding his gaze steadily. "No. I'm just a quick study."

His eyes narrowed further, still. "No hot chocolate. I can't believe I've even entertained this discussion  _this_ far."

Her shoulders slumped as he turned and started down the Alley toward the nearest designated safe Apparition point. She almost didn't want to walk, but a few people had already turned to watch what had probably seemed like an argument between  _dangerous_  criminal Hermione Granger, and her  _dutiful_ keeper-slash-Death-Eater, Thorfinn Rowle, as they passed.

She was afraid to see the crowd that would build if she forced him to drag her along. She also had very little desire to  _be_  dragged along.

As she fell into step two paces behind him, someone brushed past her among a momentary crush of bodies, all attempting to get from place to place on that chilly February afternoon. The movement was reactionary as she turned to look at the person.

They were heavily cloaked and hooded, but there was something familiar to their stride, to their height. To the set of their shoulders as the person walked.

Then, he turned to look at her.

Hermione let out a shuddering breath, an unexpected bloom of warmth flooding her chest at the sight of the dark-skinned wizard.

"Kings," she breathed the name, her voice barely audible to her own ears and a small, relieved smile curving her mouth.

He smiled back, only the quickest flicker of an expression crossing his face, before he lifted a finger to his lips, silently asking her to keep quiet. Then his gaze lowered to the collar around her neck, to the chain running from it to the Death Eater who was only now noticing that she'd paused.

Kingsley Shacklebolt's once kind face tightened into a clear expression of rage at the sight of her tether. He glanced around before he made a motion that she could not mistake for anything other than reaching for his wand.

Thorfinn saw him, then. And Hermione could feel the movement behind her as her captor shifted to draw his wand, as well.

"Run," Hermione said in an urgent, shouting whisper to Kingsley. She  _knew_  him—he didn't want this. He didn't want to risk a battle out here that might hurt innocent people.

Shaking his head at her, his expression pained and helpless, he turned and ran for the Apparition point.

Thorfinn started after him, forgetting entirely about the witch bound to him. He met an unexpected resistance to his efforts and snapped his head over his shoulder to look at her.

Hermione had wrapped both hands around the chain and dug her heels in, tugging with all her might. It wasn't much, of course, but it was  _just_  enough to stall him up.

"What are you  _doing_?" he asked in a hissing tone.

" _Please._ " She swallowed hard, shaking her head, her chestnut eyes glimmering. " _Please_  pretend you didn't see him." It was still a quick enough moment, still no true disruption beyond someone barreling through the Alley.

Thorfinn . . . hesitated.

Turning back, he caught sight of Kingsley Shacklebolt just as the Undesirable Disapparated.

"Fuck!"

He rounded on Hermione, his expression severe. "Why did you  _do_  that?"

Her tears—the  _stupid_  little consequence that had caused him to falter—broke free of her lashes to trickle down her cheeks. "He's my  _friend_."

That anger still quite visible in his face, Thorfinn glanced about. It seemed the near altercation hadn't attracted all that much attention. Perhaps this slip up would go unnoticed.

"C'mon then. We're _going_  home, now," he grated out the words, his teeth clenched tight together.

Hermione nodded, pressing her lips into a thin line. She didn't bother to wipe away her tears as she followed Thorfinn to the Apparation point.

She was too relieved—and scared—for her friend to notice that her captor seemed overly cautious at they went. Glancing over his shoulder incessantly before they Apparated. That, as they arrived home, he was quick to check on Reina, and equally quick to secure Hermione in her room, without a word of reprimand.

Hermione didn't see him, again, the entire rest of the day.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

Over the next four days, Hermione and Thorfinn did not speak. She barely saw her captor, except at meal times, which took place in near-silence—though she was acutely aware of Reina's puzzled gaze darting back and forth between her and Thorfinn every few minutes, until he would finish his food and storm from the room.

While she would like to pretend the difference didn't bother her, his change in demeanor certainly affected the atmosphere of the house. He was visibly tense, she might even say he was  _jumpy,_ and that didn't seem like a word which could ever be applied to Thorfinn Rowle.

Hermione spent most of her time in the library, trying to further her efforts in the kitchen—she was  _going_  to learn to make a proper soufflé if it was the death of her!—or helping Reina keep up the house. Unlike the first three weeks, however, even the library was quieter than usual, as she hadn't once tripped over the Death Eater in there, when his previous visits had been almost daily.

On the fifth day, after a particularly tense silent lunch, Reina'd had  _enough_ of their nonsense.

Hermione had gone up to her room to retrieve her books for her daily exchange of reading material. When she turned back toward the open door, she started at sight of the blonde witch standing there.

" _God_ , Reina," she said, pressing a palm over her heart. "You frightened me!"

Almost immediately, the other witch looked apologetic. Yet, she just as quickly made a dismissive waving gesture with both hands. "What  _happened_?"

Confused by the abrupt question—with absolutely  _no_  lead-in, or surrounding context—Hermione's brows crept upward as she shook her head. "What happened with what?"

Blue eyes rolling, Reina stepped into the room and closed the door behind her. Crossing the floor to stand directly before Hermione, she tipped her head closer to the other witch's and dropped her voice low. "Whatever it is that happened between you and Finnie!"

"Oh." With a heavy sigh, Hermione moved around Reina to perch on the corner of her bed. "Well, nothing happened _between_  us, exactly." She would ignore the brief impression that the Hufflepuff seemed deflated for a moment by her words.

Brow furrowing, Reina sat beside her. "Okay, but something  _did_  happen."

Uttering another sigh, the brunette nodded. She relayed her quick encounter with Kingsley Shacklebolt. And how she'd  _very_  deliberately caused Thorfinn to miss the chance to catch him.

"That's why he'd been so on-edge," Reina said with a nod. "He's worried someone might've reported the incident . . . ." Her lids drifted downward as she exhaled slowly. "He's been waiting to be summoned for punishment."

Swallowing hard, Hermione nodded. "I'm sorry. I couldn't think of anything else to do. Kings is my friend."

"I know. I don't think you did the wrong thing, but I can't help worrying for Finnie, I'm sure you understand."

Once more, Hermione nodded. "Of course."

"Your friends are more than okay, Hermione, trust me on that, yeah?"

"What do you mean by more than okay?"

Reina gave a small grin, tossing a quick look toward the door before she leaned close to Hermione, going on in a whisper. "You've not heard, of course, but there's group, standing against You Know Who, and its leaders? Your friends, Neville and Kingsley . . . think some of the Weasleys are considered leaders, too—at least that elder brother with the scars."

That was the best news Hermione had heard since that first real conversation, when Reina had revealed to her just how many of her loved ones had actually survived the War. "Reina, that's amazing!"

The blonde nodded. "Call themselves The Resistance."

Hermione snorted a laugh at that and nodded. "A bit on the nose, there."

"Think that's the point. They didn't see why they should call themselves anything other than what they are." Reina sighed, casting her gaze toward the floor. "Kingsley must've been furious when he saw you leashed. They knew You Know Who mentioned tethering you, but they didn't think he  _literally_  meant—"

"Wait." Hermione held up a hand, her brows pinching together. "How does The Resistance know what Voldemort said to  _his_  people?"

Reina tried not to wince at how freely the other witch said that name, focusing on the subject at hand. She shouldn't really be sharing this, but they would want Hermione to know they existed—that they were still waging the same battle she'd spent her childhood fighting.

"They . . . have someone on the inside."

_"What?"_

At Hermione's raised voice, both witches turned, eyeing the door for a few heartbeats.

After enough time had passed without any sounds from the other side—they each breathed a sigh of relief that they'd not drawn the attention of the resident Death Eater to their discussion—Reina gave Hermione a warning look.

The Gryffindor mouthed the word, "Sorry."

With an understanding smile, Reina nodded. "I don't know who they are, though. I know there's two of them, but any more information than that isn't safe. They've been feeding Kingsley information on You Know Who and the movements and missions he gives the Death Eaters since the end of the War."

"Reina, how do you know this?"

Reina shifted uncomfortably a bit in place. "I've been . . . in contact with them. They tried to get me to give information on my brother, but since he doesn't share anything with me . . . ." She shrugged. "I'm what The Resistance would classify as a rebel sympathizer. There's a lot of us. I'm only telling you this because I know they'd want me to tell you, and because I know I can trust you."

Those last words brought a smile to Hermione's face. "Do you actually  _work_ for them?"

"No." Again, Reina shrugged. "I mean, I'm happy to assist them in any way I can,  _if_  I can, but with my closeness to my brother, it's too dangerous. Most of the information I get is kept vague for a reason. If something happens to me, I don't have anything on them  _concrete_  enough to cause trouble for either them, or me."

Hermione tipped her head back, closing her eyes against the sudden ping of tears at the corners. She let out a long, shuddering breath.

Reina gently placed her hands on the other witch's shoulders. "Are you okay?"

With an airy laugh, Hermione set her head straight to meet the blonde's gaze. "Actually, I'm perfect. This is just the  _most_  amazing news, that's all. I just wish I could help them."

"I know, but with things as they are, it's safest for everyone if you're here. If they tried to take you, or you tried to find them—"

"I'd lead Thorfinn right to them, I know."

Reina stood and gave a lazy stretch—she often complained that staying still too long during the day made her sleepy, explaining very easily for Hermione why she bounced about all the time. "I just can't believe you managed to get Finnie to stop."

"I think I only distracted him long enough. It's hard to remember, it all happened so quick. I saw Kings, he saw the chain, then Thorfinn saw him. He was going to run after him, but I just . . . . I asked him not to."

Reina spun on her heel to face Hermione in fast, fluid motion, startling the other witch. "You _asked_  him? That's it?"

Hermione shrugged and looked away, immediately uncomfortable under her friend's scrutiny. "I might've teared up a little while asking."

For a moment, Reina bounced on the balls of her feet, seeming unable to find anything to say. Finally, she settled for wagging a finger in the air, but all she managed was a strange sound of what might've been excitement.

Brows shooting up, Hermione only watched her.

"I . . I need to go make biscuits," the blonde witch announced, bolting from the room.

For a few seconds, Hermione only sat there, staring at the place where Reina had stood in utter silence. She was missing something, wasn't she?

With a shake of her head, she decided whatever it was, she was probably missing it because it was _not_  something she wanted to think about, anyway. Putting the matter out of her head, she stood and grabbed her books, finally leaving her room for the library.

* * *

The next evening, the three sat at yet another painfully silent dinner. Reina had tried, making light talk with Hermione over lunch early about some changes she wanted to make to the garden when Spring arrived.

Attempts to include Thorfinn in the discussion were met with noncommittal grunts and shrugs. Oddly, as uncomfortable as it made the shared meal-time, Hermione also felt vindicated by it, due to her previous thoughts that he was really just an extremely attractive gorilla.

_No, no, Hermione,_ just _a gorilla, because you_ don't _find him attractive,_ extremely _or otherwise!_  Oddly, it was only as she reprimanded herself for the observation that she had vague, fleeting recollections of having an internal discussion over this particular subject, before.

If she cared to pay attention to the matter, she'd be troubled that this had become a frequent subject for arguments with herself, and almost entirely without her notice.

Reina was in a bit of a hurry to finish her meal that night, but neither of the room's other occupants seemed to notice her rush. Not until she crossed fork over knife atop her empty plateand stood from her place at the table.

Hermione looked up in time to see the other witch vanish out the dining room doors.  _Well, looks like I'll be cleaning up after_ both  _Rowles, tonight_ , she thought with a frown. Thorfinn didn't even seem to realize his sister had made that speedy departure, his brooding gaze stuck to his plate.

Then she returned her attention to the table and realized . . . . That evil wretch had just her alone with Thorfinn!

Her shoulders slumped. Of course, it couldn't be easy for Reina to deal with all the silent grumping going on around her. It only made sense she'd want to push them into talking.

She was still an evil wretch for being so sneaky about it, though.

Hermione opened her mouth to speak, but nothing would come out, so she shut it, again. Knowing what she actually wanted to say would probably be a good start.

Addressing the reason he'd been so angry and edgy was the only thing to do, she supposed. It probably wasn't going to be pleasant—and might actually make things worse—but at least she could tell Reina she'd  _tried_.

"I'm . . . I'm sorry," she finally said, her pulse inexplicably loud in her ears for the briefest moment after the words fell from her lips.

"What?"

She looked up the find him staring at her, a confused expression marring his features. " _What_ , what?" she asked, confused herself, now, as to why he didn't understand.

His brow furrowed and he sat back in his chair, holding her gaze, still. "Did you just apologize to me?"

Swallowing hard—and hating how very loud it sounded in the quiet room—she nodded. "I did."

"What the bloody hell for?"

"For . . . ." She paused, shaking her head. "For what happened the other day at Diagon Alley," she said, but sooner than he could comment, she tacked on, "I mean, I'm  _not_  sorry that I protected my friend, but I am sorry that my actions may have gotten you in trouble with Vol . . . with You Know Who." Many Death Eaters seemed to take it as a personal affront when anyone outside his followers called him by that name, and she no desire to see if Thorfinn shared that trait.

Thorfinn shook his head. "I wouldn't expect you to apologize for protecting your friend, Princess. But I  _do_ realize now that you didn't  _once_ think about the possible consequences to your own actions."

"That's not true," she said with a frown. "There simply was no time _to_  think."

"No, but you had  _plenty_ of time to create an incident that could be a  _big_ problem for me."

"And that's exactly why I'm apologizing. I didn't do it to get you in trouble!" Hermione huffed out an angry breath. Why were they raising their voices?

"Yes, and your apology makes everything  _all_  better, does it?" he asked, his tone acidic. "Tell me Princess, if I'm tossed in Azkaban, because someone sees my slip up as a sympathetic act to the Dark Lord's detractors, or he just decides in a momentary flight of fancy, to kill me outright, what happens to Reina? Hmm? Who's here to protect her?"

Hermione shook her head. With people like Rabastan Lestrange sniffing about—with the other Death Eaters knowing Thorfinn was not here to deter them from the pretty blonde witch—what  _would_  happen to her?

"Reina is resourceful, and there's no witch better at Charms. I'm sure she'd find a way—"

"And you?" His voice rose another few decibels. "You think they'd just leave you here, in her care?"

"Oh, like you even give a  _shit_ ," she shouted, a mirthless laugh edging her words.

This  _wasn't_ how she'd wanted this conversation to go. He'd been patient with her, acknowledging her much-needed recovery from her malnourished state, and she'd wanted to mention that. He'd proved her wrong about many things she'd once thought of him, and she'd wanted to mention that, too.

Yet, she found herself yelling back at him, all the same.

A severe expression settling over his features, he stood from his seat. Rounding the table, braced on palm on the table beside her plate and curled the other over the back of her chair.

He leaned over her, his voice dropping to a lethal whisper—a surprisingly effective tactic, with their anger still simmering in the air. "You don't get it, Princess. You, with your little act of bravery the other day, could have cost me everything. You could have endangered all of us, and it never even crossed your  _brilliant_  mind."

Hermione recoiled, her chestnut eyes enormous as they held his. Somehow, she managed to find her voice. "I know."

For a few, thundering heartbeats, he only stared back at her. Clearly, he was waiting for her to say something more, she thought.

"I  _asked_ you to let him go," she finally said in a shivering whisper. "You didn't  _have_  to do what I asked you."

A mirthless smile curved his lips as he nodded, his lids drifting downward in a slow blink. "No, I didn't  _have_ to. Maybe that's  _actually_ why I'm angry, Princess."

Hermione floundered for something—for  _anything_ —to say in response, but . . . . It really  _was_  just as she'd told Reina. He'd stopped because she'd asked him to. She'd wanted to think there was something more to it, some reasoning she wasn't privy to, but there really  _wasn't,_  was there?

"So then, why did you?"

As her question hung in the air between them, he finally tore his gaze from hers. The tense set of his shoulders eased by a hair's breadth, and he squared his jaw a few times.

Then he hissed, straightening to his full height to clutch at his left forearm.

He looked to Hermione, once more. "I'm being summoned. Now, we'll know how much trouble I'm really in for your  _kind_  act."

She sighed, shaking her head. "Thorfinn, I'm—"

"It's late, you should go to bed." With that command, he turned on his heel and walked to the doors.

"I think I'll actually stay here and—"

"I said go to bed. The mess will still be here in the morning."

Hermione frowned at him. He'd been summoned, but they were wasting time arguing? Yet, that didn't stop her. "No, you said I  _should_  go."

His shoulders shook as he let a feigned laugh rumble out. "Oh, I'm sorry. Let me rephrase that." In a blink that false mirth gave way to a deadpan expression. "Go to bed, Princess."

Her frown hardening, she folded her arms under her breasts. "No."

Pursing his lips, he nodded. "Have it your way."

He crossed the room again to stand before her. Hermione paid him no mind as she turned back to what—decidedly little—was left of her dinner.

In a blur, he pulled her chair out from the table. He slipped his arms around her and hoisted her up.

Hermione honestly couldn't say why she was surprised to find herself tossed over Thorfinn's shoulder—it was hardly the first time she'd been in this predicament, now was it?

Having learned her lesson that first day about swatting him from this position, she kept her arms neatly folded close to her body. "I can't  _believe_  this is how you resolve an argument."

As he started up the stairs to the second level, he said, "Yes, well, maybe someday you'll get it in your head not to argue with me."

Huffing, she shook her head, wondering just how long he could carry her like this before the angle gave her a headache. "Not bloody likely."

He stomped into her room and dumped her onto her bed. Returning to the door, he paused long enough to meet her gaze. "I'm serious. Stay here. You hear anything odd, go find Reina."

Unable to argue with him, she simply nodded. There didn't seem anything _to_  argue, not with the reality hanging over her head that neither of them had any idea what he was walking into.

For a long while after he left, Hermione didn't move. Her knees under her chin, and her arms wrapped 'round her legs, she watched the door, the thoughts tumbling through her head tangled and indistinct.

* * *

When Thorfinn stepped from the Floo in the wee hours of the following morning, he found his sister waiting for him, asleep on the parlor sofa.

Head shaking, he scooped her up as delicately as he could manage and brought her up to her room. Settling her in her bed, he pulled the covers up to her chin.

As she had since they were very little, she fussed, pulling the blankets down to tuck them securely under her arms. It seemed she didn't even wake to do it.

He crept back toward the door on silent footfalls, only to have her whispered voice stop him. "Were you punished?"

A relaxed—albeit tired—smile on his face, he shook his head. He should've known Hermione had told Reina what happened. "No. No one reported it. I was just on a . . . well, we'll call it a standard mission, and leave it there."

"Yes, please," she said with an airy laugh.

He laughed, too, and stepped through the door.

"You should tell Hermione."

Poking his head back into the room, he said, "Pardon?"

Frowning sleepily, she hugged her pillow and mushed her cheek against its satiny surface. "You should tell Hermione she didn't get you in trouble."

Shoulders drooping, he closed the door between them.

He found Hermione asleep—no surprise, given the hour—sitting up on the foot of her bed. Her head was down on her knees, hands folded loosely around her ankles.

Thorfinn shook his head. "Can't either of you fall asleep like normal people?" he asked the sleeping witch in a puzzled whisper.

Holding in a sigh, he moved her delicately as he eased her to lie back. He winced a time or two as he inched the covers out from beneath her, thinking he'd jostled her awake, to pull them over her.

As he stood back and turned toward the door, he heard her voice—why couldn't sleepy witches just stay shut tonight?

"Are we okay?"

"Yeah, Princess," he said as he continued across the floor. "Yeah, we're okay."

"Good." She snuggled herself into a proper cocoon inside her covers. "Now stop being such a shit to Reina and me."

He snorted a chuckle in spite of himself, his head shaking as he stepped from the room and pulled the door closed behind him.

* * *

Over the following week, the feeling in the house returned to the much more pleasant, if odd, balance they'd settled into before the the Diagon Alley Incident. When Hermione once more tripped over Thorfinn in the library that first afternoon of said restored pleasantness, however, she did wonder why on earth she'd actually believed she missed finding him in there.

It probably didn't help that neither was willing to bring up the discussion his last summons had interrupted.

"It seems in a few weeks, we're expected at Malfoy Manor for drinks," he said abruptly over dinner.

With an unpleasant jolt, Hermione realized he was talking to her, not his sister. She looked up from her plate, her eyes wide. "Mal—Malfoy Manor?"

Reina looked up, as well, clearly troubled by the fear in the other witch's voice. "You're scared of Malfoy Manor?"

Shrugging, Hermione went back to her meal. "No, I'm not scared of . . . of the building, or anything like that, that would just be . . . silly." She swallowed hard and shook her head. "But that's where Bellatrix Lestrange tortured me."

"Oh, shit," Thorfinn said. "I heard about that, actually."

Reina fixed him with a death glare while Hermione rolled her eyes. "Of course you did," the witches replied in unison.

"She shouldn't have to go." Reina didn't like the idea of the girl being someplace that might cause her emotional discomfort.

Hermione spoke up before Thorfinn could say anything. "No, it's fine. I won't let a fear tied to a dead woman control me." She nodded, but still kept her gaze on her food. "I'm going to face my fear, and tell Bellatrix Lestrange's memory what it can do with itself."

Thorfinn let out a hissing breath, dropping his fork to clutch at his arm.

The witches exchanged a wary glance.

"Remember not to let anyone into the house while I'm gone," he said as pushed back his chair and stood from the table.

Reina made a sour face at him. "What is this? My first day as your sister?"

"Hmph. Stow the cheek, Changeling."

After he stepped through the dining room doors, Hermione turned her attention to Reina. "Changeling?"

Giggling, the blonde shook her head. "Oh, it's a stupid running joke. The Death Eaters like to say I'm a changeling who replaced the  _real_ Reina Rowle, to explain why I'm so different from my family."

"I don't know, Thorfinn isn't . . . ." Hermione let out a determined sigh, choosing her words carefully. "Isn't _as_  awful as I'd always thought he'd be."

The bridge of Reina's perfect nose crinkled as she nodded, her expression thoughtful. "That's actually a rather new development. He was always a bit of a nightmare, until recently."

Hermione cleared her throat uncomfortably, trying to pretend she hadn't a clue what the other witch might be getting at. "Oh?"

Reina's shoulders slumped. "I _know_  you're not that thick."

"I have an idea what you  _think_  changed recently, you vile little troublemaker. But I assure you,  _nothing_  is happening between your brother and me."

"I know.  _Merlin_ , you two are infuriating."

Laughing, Hermione shook her head. "Please, I have maybe a few more weeks of recovery left, or less, considering how you've been stuffing me—" Reina beamed at the acknowledgement of her efforts. "And after that, I'm to be his servant, remember? _That's_  my role here."

"Don't you know why I wasn't too upset about his  _plans_ for you?"

"Because madness runs in your family?"

Reina pursed her lips, very distinctly  _not_  amused by the other witch's joke. "No. Because I figured that by having you here, this bossy, brilliant girl I used to tutor, who was sunshine, even when she was a right bloody pain in the arse, maybe he'd soften a little. And then, when it turned out you wouldn't even be able to fulfill the role he's set for you for some time, I thought . . . ." She gave a half-shrug. "Maybe you'd get through to him  _before_  you even had to play servant."

Brows drawing upward, Hermione nodded. Standing up from the table, she started gathering up the dirty dishes to make her point as she said, "Oh, right, and look at me, here, about to scrub his dinner plate. Seems your dastardly scheme backfired  _somewhere_ , Hufflepuff."

Snickering, Reina moved to help her.

* * *

Thorfinn approached the alley, his footfalls cautious. He could just hear the voices—whispered, echoing dully off the brick and mortar walls. Antonin was rounding from the other end. There were three,  _maybe_  more.  _Fuck_. They should've dragged Rabastan to Hogsmeade with them, just as a precaution.

No matter. Taking them by surprise, they should still be able to box them in.

The closer he drew, the more of the hushed conversation he could make out. He could also see, courtesy of a hint of illumination at the other end of the alley, Antonin. The other wizard was erecting barriers, to force their quarry toward Thorfinn.

"Might be turned," one voice said, though Thorfinn had missed the start of the sentence.

"Doubtful. We have to find a way to get her out of there."

"Not going to happen. The locator on her is too powerful."

The discussion caught him off-guard. Could they be talking about Hermione?  _No_ , no one else knew of the locator charm she wore.

"Rowle!"

Antonin's growling shout snapped him to attention just in time to notice Kingsley Shacklebolt barreling straight for him. He had no time to get off a spell as he crashed to the ground. The other wizard pressed him hard into the unyielding surface at his back before pushing off and making a run for it.

Turning, Thorfinn latched a hand around the retreating man's ankle, tripping him.

Yet, as he pointed his wand at Kingsley, he found himself outnumbered.

Neville Longbottom and one of the Weasleys—fucked if he knew which one—stared down at him, wands at the ready. Longbottom seemed about to say something, if he managed to get his very obvious and palpable anger under control enough to form words.

Kingsley shook his leg free. Standing he looked down the alley in time to see Antonin's spell coming at them. He grabbed the other two and pulled them out of the way, just barely missing the slashing purple fire, himself.

"We  _have_  to go," the dark-skinned wizard said, spotting another figure who'd appeared in the alley to flank Dolohov.

Ducking another barrage of spells, Longbottom kicked the wand from Thorfinn's hand—with enough force to have broken some fingers, had he not uncurled his hand at  _just_  the right moment. Weasley-whichever-the-fuck stomped his throat, and then they took off, leaving the violently coughing Death Eater reaching for his wand.

Rolling onto his side, he managed a few spells in their direction before they were gone.

Antonin and Rabastan—of all bloody people to pop up to  _help_ —rushed to him. His partner offered him a grudging hand up, which he, just as grudgingly, accepted.

Rabastan eyed the place where the trio had disappeared into the night. "Well, you certainly fucked that up nicely."

"The  _hell_ are you doing here?" Thorfinn demanded, clutching his throat.

"I thought you were wrong about needing my aid, so I came, anyway." Shaking his head, Rabastan stormed off. "C'mon, we've got to report this travesty to the Dark Lord. Just glad it wasn't me."

As they followed Rabastan, a few paces behind, Thorfinn spoke to Antonin in a whisper. "He's going to kill me for this."

"Don't panic. He might decide himself satisfied with torturing you."

Thorfinn's shoulder slumped, and he tilted his head side-to-side, testing his still very uncomfortable throat. "If he kills me . . . I need you to look after my sister."

Antonin understood the younger wizard's concern, but he still could not help rolling his eyes at the dramatics. " _If_  he kills you, fine. I'll treat her as my own sister."

Nodding Thorfinn tacked on, "And Hermione."

The dark-haired man nearly tripped over his own two feet in shock. "What?"

Standing as tall as he could make himself, Thorfinn fixed his gaze on the spot where Rabastan had just Disapparated back to Hogwarts. " _If_ the Dark Lord kills me, Hermione is yours." His stomach absolutely soured at the thought that Rabastan might bolt to the house before his body even hit the floor to claim the witch.

Swallowing hard, Antonin watched Thorfinn as he followed Rabastan. He refused to believe that part of him actually wished the other wizard's punishment  _would_  be death.

* * *

The three stood before the Dark Lord, braced to receive their sentencing. Antonin found himself surprised by how steady Thorfinn was in the face of what he assumed would be his own death.

"Three Undesirables. And they got away,  _how_ , precisely?"

Thorfinn's gaze was on the serpentine wizard as he sputtered and wheezed. When he realized the line of his own thoughts—that someone should put the poor wretch out of his misery, if he  _could_  die—he piped up.

He  _was_  responsible, after all, and the last thing he needed would be for the Dark Lord to start poking about in his head for answers.

"I am to blame, My Lord. I hesitated."

Rabastan winced. Antonin only looked on, aware of the murmuring of the other Death Eaters, lingering in the corners of the room.

"I see." The twisted creature nodded. "I require a volunteer. Someone fetch me Reina Rowle."

" _What?!_ " Suddenly Thorfinn exploded, Antonin feared for a terrible moment that he would draw his wand on the Dark Lord.

With a flick of their Lord's bony wrist, ropes appeared. They slithered around the blond wizard like angry snakes, binding and suffocating.

Thorfinn's enraged screams fell upon deaf ears as Walden MacNair stepped forward.

Antonin realized he'd just missed his chance. He should've volunteered, at least he would do Reina the courtesy of explaining what had happened.

He watched the depraved bastard drop to his knees and press his lips to the Dark Lord's robes. "I volunteer, My Lord," he said, his tone appropriately groveling.

* * *

Hermione let her cards drop as she covered a yawn. "I don't think he'll be back tonight. We should turn in."

Pouting, Reina reluctantly set down her hand. "It's not _that_  late."

"You realize all your words just ran together, right?"

Snorting a tired giggle, the blonde nodded. "Fine, okay. You win."

As she stood from the table, the front doors of the Rowle home exploded inward.

Hermione, aware she had no wand, scrambled from her chair to duck behind it. Reina hopped to her feet, drawing hers.

Before she could utter a single spell, Walden MacNair stormed into the room. He was on her in a heartbeat, his fingers closing hard over her wand-hand, forcing her to drop her weapon.

"Dark Lord wants a word with you, my pretty thing," he said, his voice making the witch's skin crawl. He slipped an arm tight around her waist. "C'mon, then."

"No!"

The unexpected shout startled the man, and he turned just in time to see the other witch going for Reina's discarded wand.

He ducked smoothly into her line of motion, backhanding her hard across the cheek.

"Hermione,  _no_ ," Reina cried as the other girl was knocked backward.

"Watch yourself, Mudblood," MacNair said as he stooped to pick up the troublesome wand. "Or I'll come back for you."

Dazed, but still conscious, Hermione sat up, spitting out the blood she tasted in her mouth. She got to her feet, but already MacNair was exiting the house, Reina in his arms.

"No, no,  _no_!" Hermione was screaming, but by the time she got to the broken doors of the house, they were gone.

And there was  _nothing_  she could do.

Swallowing another scream, she crumpled where she stood. Curling in on herself, she dropped her head down against her knees and sobbed, frustrated and angered by her own helplessness.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

Antonin kept his features carefully schooled. He focused on his breathing, on the weight of the cloak on his shoulders . . . on the bloody pattern of the ancient carpet beneath his feet.  _Anything_  to keep his direct attention off what was happening before him, Rabastan, and the random assembly of Death Eaters at his back.

Yet, there no masking the vile activity the Dark Lord had ordered.

No covering Thorfinn's screams of rage and agony as he lay, bound and helpless, unable to do nothing more than look on. No banishing the cries of Reina Rowle, pleading for anyone to help her, to stop what was being forced upon her.

No unhearing the disgusting, satisfied grunting sounds of Walden MacNair as he carried out their Lord's command, an utterly revolting sort of glee in his face, all the while.

Antonin had no idea how he was managing to keep the contents of his stomach down. Worse was that he knew some of the assembly behind him was enjoying the brutal spectacle.

He could not understand how this was deemed an  _appropriate_ punishment for Thorfinn's failing.

"Enough," Voldemort said after what seemed entirely too long, his voice hollow and rasping as he fought another series of coughs. "I do believe young Thorfinn has learnt his lesson."

MacNair withdrew, righting himself beneath his robes. He lingered there, waiting for the next command.

"But I do enjoy being thorough. MacNair, Goyle, please escort Miss Rowle to the dungeons. She's going to be our guest a few days."

Thorfinn renewed his screaming and struggling as the two dragged his sister from atop the Headmaster's desk and carried her from the room.

" _Finnie!_ "

Antonin shut his eyes tight, forcing a hard gulp down his throat at her anguished cry for her brother.

"Do not fret, Thorfinn." The Dark Lord made a vague wave to the assembly and a few Death Eaters stepped forward. "While your sister is . . . in our care, so shall you be. I wish to ensure that you learn you are  _not_  to disappoint me, again."

He waved his hand once more, and the group picked up the struggling wizard, carrying him away, as well.

Antonin understood too well the Dark Lord's intention. The dungeons would be no reprieve for Reina; assaults on her would undoubtedly continue until she was released . . . . And her brother would once more be helpless as he was kept in close quarters, so that he could not help but witness it.

Voldemort seemed to lose interest in those gathered, still. "You are all dismissed."

Antonin waited until the last, filing out behind the rest. He wanted to break away from the others, but did not wish to look suspiciously rushed.

Once they were out of earshot of the Headmaster's office, Rabastan muttered over his shoulder. "Shit like that is almost enough to make a man swear off shagging."

His head tipping back, Antonin rolled his eyes behind closed lids. Of course, even after that repulsive display, his friend would only think of the impact it might have on his own  _needs_.

As they made their way down to the main floor of the castle, he saw MacNair and Goyle emerge from the stairwell leading to the dungeons, followed by the group who'd carried her brother. They'd given the poor girl time to breathe, surprising.

Slipping away from Rabastan and the others, Antonin made his way toward the mouth of the stairwell.

"There you are."

He paused, midstride, his stomach roiling all over again, and his eyes rolling so hard the lids fluttered at the sound of the voice behind him.

"What is it you want, Alecto?" he asked, not even bothering to turn to face her.

The woman could not take a hint, he knew, but it seemed he was always hoping each brush off he gave her might  _finally_  be the one that got through to her.

She drew  _entirely_  too close to his person, running the tip of her finger across his shoulders from behind—and quite oblivious to the shudder he did nothing to hide at her touch. "What business could you possibly have in the dungeons?"

"I hardly see how that's any of your concern." He stepped from her reach, sorely tempted to make a show of breathing a sigh of relief at the loss of bodily contact with her, and continued on his way.

He could feel her displeased—but likely not deterred—gaze on him as he descended the steps.

Young Theo Nott was stationed at the dungeon doors, his peaked expression showed he was aware of what the prisoners had just been put through. Antonin felt true relief, then, that Theo's father cared so little for him, Merlin only knew what terrible fate would've awaited the young man, had his father  _actually_ loved him.

As it was, with no proper way to punish the elder Theodore as he would like, the Dark Lord had plunged him into a chamber devoid of sight and sound. He was only to be released when the prolonged sensory deprivation broke him.

Whether or not he would still be sane when he was released was another matter, entirely.

"Is anyone in there with them?" The last thing Antonin wanted was to walk in and bear witness to another assault. He hadn't exactly taken a headcount, so he couldn't be certain one of the volunteers who'd dragged Thorfinn down here hadn't stayed behind.

Theo shook his head, looking as though he feared he might lose his dinner if he opened his mouth to speak.

Nodding, Antonin patted his shoulder. It was really no wonder, was it, that younger Death Eaters hadn't the foggiest idea how to behave when their elders were setting  _this_  sort of example as proper pure-blood behavior?

Still holding the young wizard's shoulder, Antonin leaned in, suggesting in a whisper, "A mild Confundus on any visitors might cause them to forget  _why_ they came down here."

Aware of what the man meant, Theo nodded, swallowing hard. He was too distressed to have thought of something so simple himself, and was grateful to the dark-haired man. He didn't think he could stomach being stationed here if he had to listen to that poor witch being hurt.

Nodding back, Antonin let his hand drop to his side and eased open the door to the dungeons.

As he stepped in on silent footfalls, the hushed conversation from the last two cells drifted across to him.

"Stop apologizing, Finnie, please," Reina Rowle said, her lowered voice still thick with her own tears, but surprisingly strong. "This was  _not_  your fault."

The inherent toughness of those in the Rowle line—even someone as seemingly delicate as the golden haired witch sitting in that cell—would never cease to amaze him.

"How is this  _not_ my fault?" Thorfinn's tone made his anger  _more_  than apparent. The deep, rumbled words sounded more like a growl than anything a human throat might produce. " _I_  failed. They hurt you to punish  _me_. Tell me where I've misread the situation!"

She let out a breathless laugh—Antonin imagined she was probably shaking her head at her brother. " _You_ didn't order me kidnapped.  _You_  didn't hurt me. You  _didn't_  sit idly by and let this happen, Finnie."

Antonin inched closer to the cells, not wanting to disturb their discussion just yet. This was a talk they clearly needed to have before he interceded and derailed the entire thing.

The two were in side-by-side cells. Thorfinn had his head down against the bars that separated his from his sister. Reina was reaching a delicate hand through the iron to stroke his hair, as one might a child.

"Reinie, don't try to absolve me of my role in this."

"I suppose I _could_  hate you, if you think it'll help ease your conscience," she said.

How she managed to keep her voice steady while she shivered and tears poured down her cheeks, still, was beyond Antonin.

After a lengthy silence, Thorfinn finally spoke in a whisper so low and soft, the other wizard was certain he'd never heard him sound like this before. "I never want you to hate me, Reinie."

"Good, 'cause even if you'd told me to, I certainly wasn't planning on listening."

"Cheeky little Changeling."

Again, Reina laughed, the sound so oddly discordant when weighed against what she'd just suffered through. But Antonin understood—she was keeping a brave front so her brother wouldn't hate himself any more than he clearly already did.

"I hope Hermione's all right," she said, her tone an odd mix of fear and distraction, just then.

Antonin's heart skipped at the mention, and he noticed Thorfinn's head come up to meet his sister's gaze through the bars.

"How can you  _possibly_ be concerned for anyone else, right now?"

"You mean it doesn't bother you that the other Death Eaters are going to realize she'll be _alone_  until you're released?"

Antonin's brows shot up as he watched Thorfinn shift uncomfortably in place, but not answer the question. It was clearly a turn of events he'd not thought about, because he didn't  _want_  to think about it.

"And . . . MacNair, when he came for me, he threatened her."

There was a sudden flicker in the younger wizard's tired and angry gaze that was not missed by Antonin. "Why?"

"Let's say I finally understand why she was sorted into Gryffidnor instead of Ravenclaw. Stupidly courageous, that one," Reina said with a quiet laugh, her tears finally having slowed. "She, um, she tried to stop him. He struck her and said he'd come back for her if she didn't behave. He's  _such_  a vile man, he might go back for her, anyway."

At last, Antonin piped up, unable to linger silent in the shadows, any longer. "I would offer my aid."

Both golden heads snapped in the direction of his voice.

"How long have you been there?" Thorfinn said, aware he hadn't heard the door to the cells open or close.

Spreading his hands in a placating gesture, the elder wizard saw no reason to lie. "Long enough."

"Mr. Dolohov!  _Please_ ," Reina said, climbing to her feet to make her way toward him on shaky legs. "You have to go check on her!"

Both men complained in unison that she should sit and rest, but the witch  _wasn't_  having any of it.

"Both of you, hush right now and stop coddling me!"

Once more, Antonin's brows shot up and Thorfinn slapped a hand against his forehead. There was no talking to her when she got like this—no wonder she and Hermione had become fast friends.

After exchanging a glance with the younger wizard, Antonin turned his attention wholly on Reina. "Of course I will. I . . . I wish to apologize to you, first, Miss Rowle. I had the opportunity to be the one to retrieve you, and I missed it. I did _not_ know what the Dark Lord had planned for you, but I would have done you the courtesy of explaining to you what was going on, to the best of my abilities, rather than snatching you away into the night in such a manner."

"The two of you are impossible. There are two people responsible for what was done to me, and _neither_  of them are in this room!"

"I can see how you keep your brother in line," Antonin said, trying not to grin—this was hardly the time for humor.

Thorfinn glowered at the other man.

Reina shook her head and sighed. "Stow the look, Finnie." Returning her gaze to Antonin's, she said, "Will you please go check on her, now? And . . . don't, please don't tell her what happened to me!"

At the glance the wizards shared, she sighed, again. "She's probably scared, and worried, and, like you two sods, blaming herself for not being able to stop MacNair."

"I'll tell her what I'm able, then, to soothe her anxieties."

Setting his jaw as he watched the dark-haired man start back through the dungeons toward the door, Thorfinn called out, "Watch you don't get  _too_ soothing, now."

Antonin paused. He supposed it was only natural Thorfinn might think he had ulterior motives. Honestly, he just needed to see her. Needed her to see him in some light other than the one that had made her so openly fearful of him at the Wizegamot.

Turning back, he whispered, just enough that it carried back to them, but would not be heard beyond the door outside. "Don't fear, Miss Rowle. Young Theodore and I have conspired to deter any unpleasant visits while you're here."

A small, grateful smile curved her lips. "Thank you, Mr Dolohov," she whispered back.

When the door closed behind him, she lowered herself to sit on the floor of her cell, once more.

Thorfinn climbed to his feet and crossed his own cell to sit as close beside her as the bars would allow, again. "You're slightly amazing, you know that, Reinie?"

Meeting her brother's gaze, the witch shrugged. "Pretty sure I'm still in shock, actually. I'm just working with it for as long as I can until the reality of this situation truly hits me."

Reaching through the bars, he caught one of his sister's hand in his own and held it, tight.

* * *

Hermione eased the door open, listening carefully in the darkened room for the sound of the old man's breath. She timed her careful, quiet footfalls to each exhalation, inching her way toward the bed.

In the muted moonlight through the gauzy curtained windows, she could see his wand resting on the bedside table.

With a quick look at the sleeping man, she crept the final few steps to the table. Holding her breath, she slipped her fingers around the weapon and lifted it from its resting place. She waited, breath held, still, for any response or acknowledgement from him.

 _Silence_.

Holding herself carefully, she made her way back to the door and slid through, out into the corridor. Gently pushing the door closed, she waited again, listening through the ancient wooden surface for any sign that she'd caused the old man to stir.

_Nothing._

Heaving a sigh of relief, Hermione started back for the other side of the house. Nearly two hours she'd sat there, beside the broken doors, fretting, trying to figure out something,  _anything,_  to do. She should've gone to put something cold on her throbbing cheek, but she couldn't budge, staring out into the night as she wondered . . . .

What did the Dark Lord want with Reina? Where was Thorfinn?! Was MacNair going to slither back to make good on his threat?

Then, it occurred to her that she might not be a messy bundle of nerves right now if she simply had a wand with which to protect herself. Which led into the realization that there was a wand in the possession of a wizard who often forgot he even  _had_  one—a fact to which the layer of dust upon the weapon attested.

She scrubbed the signs of disuse from the wood with the sleeve of her dress as she reached the staircase and started back down to the first floor.

And nearly shrieked at the sight of the dark-haired wizard inspecting the damage to the double doors. Holding her stolen wand at the ready, she backpedaled a step.

Her heel struck a loose board beneath the plush carpet, announcing her presence to the intruder.

His head snapped up from his examination, his dark eyes meeting hers in an instant. He'd reached for his wand instinctively, but as he saw her, he stopped himself, forcing his hands into the air, instead.

There was a flicker in her gaze—she'd noticed that he'd  _chosen_  not to draw his wand on her.

Thorfinn's warning that other Death Eaters might try to claim her in his absence pounded in her head as she tried to control her fear.

"What are you doing here?" she demanded, proud that her voice came out steady.

Antonin took a slow, measured step forward, hands still in the air. "Miss Rowle asked me to come check on you."

At the mention of Reina, Hermione nearly dropped her guard, yet she forced herself to hold her arm steady. "Where is she?"

With a deep breath, he tried to think of what he could safely relay to her without violating what the golden-haired witch had asked of him. "She is being held in the dungeons at Hogwarts, along with Thorfinn."

Again, Hermione felt the urge to drop her wand arm to her side—though this time it seemed a bit more inexplicable. "Why? What did they do?"

" _She_  did nothing." He shook his head, taking another careful step forward. " _He_ missed the opportunity to catch some Undesirables, so the Dark Lord is punishing him by punishing them, both."

When she still seemed like she would not budge, he tacked on, "She asked  _me_  to come here, because she trusts me not to harm you."

"Why would she think you could be . . . ?" Hermione's voice trailed off as her gaze darted about for a split-second. Antonin and Thorfinn worked together frequently, it made sense that Reina would know him, that she might even know him enough to feel she could trust him.

" _I_ don't trust you," the brunette clarified as she lowered her wand, but kept it gripped tight in her hand, "but I trust Reina."

"I understand."

Hermione continued down the stairs, but kept a good, wary distance from the man. "So? You've checked on me, is that it?"

Antonin shook his head, bracing for her reaction as he said, "I will stay until Thorfinn returns."

She gripped the wand at her side so tight her knuckles turned white. "Oh, you must be joking," she said in a shocked, breathless whisper.

The young woman kept making a movement that he knew was likely a subconscious gesture—very similar to what she'd done when their gazes had met as she was led out of the Wizengamot. She reached her free arm across herself, fixing her hair over her shoulder, righting a non-existent wrinkle in her dress. Any excuse her brilliant mind could conjure to mask that she was shielding herself, right over the area of her body where his spell had struck her.

His gaze traveled upward, landing on her swollen cheek. "Are you—?"

"It's fine," she said, snapping. She was surprised she refrained from adding on the pointed words  _I've had worse._

"I will keep my distance from you, if you wish. I am—"

"I wish."

At her quick, unthinking reply, he felt a little jab in the center of his chest. But then, he knew to expect this response from her to his very presence.

He nodded and decided to try again. "I will keep my distance from you. I am only here to ensure no one tries to take advantage of the Rowles' absence."

For a few moments, she only stared at him in silence. It was quite clear she was uncertain what to do in this very odd predicament.

Desperate for something to break the sudden, markedly unpleasant tension, the big, scary dark wizard looked to the smashed in doors. "Shall I fix the entryway?"

Painfully aware that with her a wand that wasn't hers, her magic was less potent, she made a dismissive waving gesture. "Sure, have at it."

He did just that, and then bid her goodnight, disappearing into the parlor.

Hermione retreated to her room. She locked the door and secured the space with her stolen wand—but a stolen wand was better than nothing.

She barely slept the entire night. Instead, she sat up and watched her bedroom door, wand at the ready, in case Reina's trust had been misplaced.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

An hour or so after Hermione watched the sun come up through her window, she finally moved. Her body was stiff and aching from staying so still for so many hours, but her wards were undisturbed, and she'd heard not so much as a footfall upon the stairs during the night.

She might not trust Antonin Dolohov as far as she could throw Thorfinn, but he'd stayed true to his word to keep his distance. That gave her some measure of comfort in trusting Reina's opinion.

Hermione moved gingerly as she climbed off her bed and made her way to the bathroom, stretching and trying to work the kinks from her exhausted joints as best she could as she went.

Toilet used, hands and face washed—she avoided looking herself in the mirror, she could feel that her cheek was still tender, she wasn't certain she wanted to see the bruising MacNair might've left her with—and teeth brushed, she made her way back to the door of her bedroom and undid the wards. Popping her head into the corridor, she listened for several deafening heartbeats. No sounds from the house, at all, met her ears.

Perhaps her temporary,  _self-appointed_ , protector, had changed his mind and left during the night. Unwilling to let her guard down, however, she aimed her wand before her as she stepped out and started toward the first floor.

Her gaze darting about the lower level as she descended the steps, she pivoted on her heel to face the parlor entryway the moment her feet hit the landing.

Hermione found the room  _empty._

Despite her earlier thought, she had the strangest sense that he'd not left, which meant there was a big, scary dark wizard who'd once tried to murder her stalking about the house, somewhere.

"God, Hermione! I  _hate_ your imagination, some days," she said to herself in an unhappy mutter.

Swallowing hard, she turned and started through the main floor of the house, poking her head—and wand—through the door of every room, and into every nook and shadowed alcove on her way. Empty, all of them.

And dear God, she'd never truly realized how large and looming the  _typically_  modest and sunny feeling estate house actually was when Reina and Thorfinn had been there.

As she stepped into the dining room, she had a fleeting thought that perhaps he'd gone to the other side of the second floor to check on Uncle Rowle. She still didn't have his name, never mind that she'd lived there just over a month—the siblings had never furnished one, and she'd never asked.

Despite his residence in the same living space, he was not often a topic of discussion. After encountering his prickly and soured demeanor during his moments of skewed-lucidity, firsthand, she could not say she disagreed with the sense she got from the younger Rowles, that they would not be terribly sorry the day he breathed his last.

As she neared the partly-open doors to the kitchen, she heard sounds. Metal scraping against metal . . . like someone stirring something in a pan.

Was terrifying Death Eater Antonin Dolohov actually in there  _cooking_?

Giving her head a sobering shake at the odd thought, Hermione peeked into the kitchen.

There he stood, before the stove. His dark head was tipped forward slightly, and he seemed rather focused on whatever culinary project he was conducting upon the stovetop.

Now that she could see him in the light of day, in a setting as unexpected and simple as a kitchen, she spared a moment to observe him.

He was quite tall, possibly rivaling Thorfinn's height, or close to. His broad shoulders didn't seem  _as_  broad as she recalled . . . . Had he honestly been larger once, or were her memories of his stature skewed by fear? That was entirely possible, but then it was also possible he'd simply lost some of his size since she'd last really gotten a look at the man.

She didn't want to think on what could cause a  _Death Eater_  to lose weight from stress.

"Are you going to hover there, or were you planning to attack while my back was turned?"

Jumping a little—had he realized she was there the entire time, or had he only just noticed before he spoke?—Hermione cleared her throat and finally slipped through the open doors and into the room. She couldn't say what was more nerve wracking, that he'd noticed her presence, despite her awareness that she'd not made a sound, or that he seemed utterly nonplussed even though she easily  _could_  have taken the opportunity to attack him.

He moved a little to the side, obviously seeing to something in front of him, and then turned, a plate piled with eggs and bacon in each hand. "It's nothing fancy," he said his tone one of perfect calm, "but I thought you could probably do with a meal after the night you've had."

Hermione looked to the dishes he held as he crossed the kitchen to set them on the table, and then back to the man carrying them. She felt, for a wobbly and unsteady moment, that she'd fallen into some warped alternate reality.

Straightening from the table, he met her gaze. That same awkward tension from last night settled in the room as he noticed she hadn't moved a fraction after having stepped into the room.

His dark brows rose as he asked, "Are you not hungry?"

She opened her mouth to speak, but then shut it again, repeating the confused action before she finally found her voice. "I don't suppose I expected a Death Eater to show anything resembling sympathy."

Antonin nodded—it was no great secret how Muggle-borns felt about Death Eaters, and vice-versa. For the most part, anyway. "Has Thorfinn never shown you sympathy?"

Without thought, she nodded. Certainly, she wouldn't have thought she could answer in such a way a month earlier, but she was aware much had changed in that short time. He had shown patience when another in his place might not have cared that she'd barely enough strength to lift a broom a month ago, let alone  _work_  as a personal servant. His concern over what would become of her in his absence, that unfinished discussion at to why he let Kingsley go that day . . . .

Now that she was thinking on it, even how delicate he'd been when he'd lifted her from the tub that first day was something she'd not expected of him.

Strangely, she was equally certain that her captor had not expected such behavior of himself, either.

"Of course he ha—" Stopping herself with a shake of her head, she forced a mirthless smile. "I'd rather not have such discussions with you, if it's all the same."

He nodded. "I understand."

She still didn't move. But then, a scent drifting across the kitchen caught her attention. "Is that coffee?"

A half-grin curved one corner of his mouth as he nodded, once more.

"I . . . suppose I could do with some, after all," she said, her voice carefully measured as she finally went to the table, but he didn't miss how she never slackened her tight grip on her wand.

She took a seat, making no attempt to hide how she observed his every movement as he prepared two cups. She made silent, affirmative gestures when he directed her attention to the milk and sugar, but only after she watched him add them to his own cup.

He crossed to the table, setting her coffee down before her and then settling across from her.

Hermione picked up her cup with her left hand, taking a long sip. Her eyes held his over the rim of the mug, the entire time. He was relatively certain she didn't even blink.

Now, as she set the mug down and he got a good look at her—this was possibly the closest he'd been to her in decent lighting, and a calm setting,  _ever—_ he peered into his own cup and shrugged. "I suppose I could make it stronger, next pot."

She glowered at him—an unpleasant grimace he wondered if she had perhaps picked up from Thorfinn—but only took another long sip.

Taking a drink from his own cup, he started into the food on the dish in front of him. After his first piece of bacon, and third forkful of eggs, he noticed she wasn't touching her plate, only silently nursing her coffee as she watched him eat.

Though, it nearly made him wonder if he'd gotten egg in his facial hair, he understood her caution. Honestly, it  _was_ starting to feel a little ridiculous that she suspected him of some underhanded act or another at every turn, but he couldn't say he actually blamed her.

Sighing, he got up, retrieving a clean fork—for all he knew, she would have a panic attack if the one that had been in his mouth even came near her plate. He returned to the table, scooping up a forkful of her serving of eggs and snatching one of her pieces of bacon with his other hand.

After downing both, he held his hands up and shrugged expectantly.

Hermione knew she was being difficult, but she was not entirely without reason. He was clearly aware of that, she understood. But now, she was short a piece of bacon. Taking one from his plate in compensation, she finally picked up her fork and started eating.

She ignored that he seemed surprised—as though she was going to let him get away with stealing bacon, the point that he was trying to prove this wasn't some attempt to poison or drug her, notwithstanding.

Resuming his seat, the odd pair ate in silence. She maintained her grip on her wand, all the while. As the only person ever to survive a direct hit from his carefully crafted and perfected attack spell, he did not fault her the apprehension she clearly felt simply being in his presence.

It would only increase that apprehension, he was certain, if she had any idea that her survival was the very thing that had sparked his fascination with her.

"Is there more?" she asked abruptly as she was about to eat her last bite.

Antonin arched a brow, looking from the empty plate to the girl behind it—even having put a good deal of the weight he remembered her at back on, she was still a bit slight. He'd expected her to pick at her food in a birdlike fashion.

"Are you still hungry?"

Hermione sat a little straighter, mirroring his expression. So what if she  _was_? She tried to shake off the unpleasant ripple at the idea that he might be judging her eating habits and shook her head. "Not for me; I'll need to bring food and tea up to Uncle, since Reina isn't here to do it."

He deliberately overlooked that she referred to the elder Rowle in a familial way—for all he knew, that was a simple matter of convenience—and nodded. "Certainly enough."

Hermione rose from the table, starting the kettle for the old man's morning tea as she busied herself with setting the tray to bring upstairs. She kept one heel planted so that her back was never entirely to Antonin, and stubbornly functioned with one hand, her other still holding her wand.

How she was going to manage the tray, and keep the weapon at the ready until she was away from the Death Eater was another matter.

"You are a difficult woman," he said in a quiet voice, as he watched her some minutes later. The tray gripped with her left hand, the other side balanced over her right wrist as she kept the wand pointed toward him.

"Yes, well, you'll excuse me if it takes more than a fixed door and an uncompromised meal to sway my opinion of a man."

She inched out the double doors backward, keeping her eye on the entryway as she made her way through the dining room. Only when she was out of that room, as well, did she turn and start toward the staircase. She was relatively certain Reina probably used a servants' staircase hidden off the kitchen somewhere to bring things up to Uncle, but Hermione had no idea where, precisely, that was, and she had no desire to get herself lost in unfamiliar parts of the house while this man was here.

When she at last started up the steps, she heard Antonin Dolohov's voice from the dining room doors.

"You might want to hide his wand before you get to his rooms."

Once again, Hermione glowered at him. Of course such a thing had not escaped her awareness, she simply didn't like that he clearly knew about her act of larceny last night just before he arrived.

It likely had not been difficult to do the calculations on this particular problem, though. The wand on her person when she'd been captured was taken, she'd of course not been furnished with a new one. There was only one resident in the house who wasn't likely to notice if theirs turned up missing.

Still, it bothered Hermione that  _he_  was aware the wand she held did not have the desired potency or effectiveness. She didn't like that it made her wonder if her wards would have held, had he not been a gentleman last night.

She held his gaze, her expression blatantly angry, as long as she could manage while she climbed the steps.

* * *

Matters did not improve much between captive and temporary protector over the course of the next two days. Meals eaten in the same, awkward silence, wary distance kept at all times. Most hours she spent either in her own room or the library, so they barely saw one another outside of sharing meals.

Sometime around dinner of that second evening, she relaxed her wand grip around him, but it seemed the only change to her rigid posture. Still, he noted it. She also complimented his cooking, though it was the only thing she said the entire time.

Both were small gives, but he'd take them. Anything was better than her behaving as though she thought he'd attack her the moment she dropped her guard by the  _smallest_ fraction.

Hermione didn't like that the house was so quiet. She missed Reina, with her constant presence of light and sweetness, even in her fierce, immovable moments.

She'd die before admitting it aloud, but she missed Thorfinn, too. She couldn't quite say precisely why, either. It wasn't as though she missed his teasing, or his perversity . . . or that stupid, boisterous chuckle of his. Or the way he could be playfully condescending about her height—as though her stature was her fault, somehow?

Sighing at herself, Hermione closed the book she was trying—and failing—to read. She ran her hands down her face and shook her head to clear her thoughts.

Hell, she almost wished he was back simply so that she didn't have to wonder why she was scrambling to  _not_ think about him in his absence.

* * *

The third morning of their captivity, Thorfinn and Reina were roused by the sound of the door to the cells creaking open. Gratefully, Antonin and Theo's plan to keep anyone from visiting had proven successful.

Of course, they'd not been fed, which _was_  unpleasant, but Theo had sneaked them water. The Dark Lord hadn't meant for them to starve to death, nor die of dehydration, Thorfinn new better, he wanted them to feel lucky they were still alive when he released them.

He wanted them grateful  _to him_  that they weren't dead.

How did he not realize there were worse things than death? Like what the serpentine wizard had _originally_ planned for them, had it not been for Antonin and Theo's unexpected intervention?

Two younger Death Eaters, whom Thorfinn recognized, but whose names he couldn't recall at the moment, stepped into the dungeon and started along the row of cells. The early hour, their abysmal circumstances, and lack of but perhaps the few minutes of sleep they'd just interrupted had left him disoriented.

By the time he was on his feet, they were unlocking Reina's door. One stood by as the other entered, hoisting the tired witch up by her shoulders.

Thorfinn threw himself against the bars, screaming threats at the pair of cloaked figures.

The one stationed by the cell door as his sister was led out spoke in a low voice. "She's being released."

Reina turned her head, meeting her brother's gaze as she was escorted—more like pushed, nudged, and dragged—out. He could read the fear in her eyes clearly. The cells had not been pleasant, but neither of them liked that he was still locked up as she was being led away.

"And what of me?"

The Death Eater glanced toward his partner, pulling the blonde witch from the dungeons, and then back at Thorfinn. "You're to 'wallow in your failing a few more hours'. Dark Lord's exact words," he said, unable to hold Thorfinn's gaze as he shrugged before walking off.

Sympathy . . . . Thorfinn had not been expecting that. But he thought it was no real surprise, the more maniacal the Dark Lord's orders and punishments became, the more those of his followers who were not wholly brainwashed—or who didn't have a sadistic agenda of their own that their Lord's depravity inadvertently supported—seemed to wonder what they'd gotten themselves into.

By the time he looked to the door of the dungeons, Reina was gone.

Thorfinn pressed his forehead against the bars, closing his eyes and wincing. He could only hope that nothing stopped her from making it home safely.

* * *

Just before lunch on the third day, the doors to the Rowle home burst open, heavy, rushed footfalls stomped through the main floor. Hermione heard the commotion from upstairs. Dropping her book, she snatched up her pilfered wand and ran to her bedroom door.

Stepping into the corridor, wand first, she hurried to the staircase—only to nearly collide with Thorfinn, launching himself up the steps, two at a time. Her thoughts ran immediately to the other night, to her inability to help his sister, as she dropped her wand hand to her side.

"Thorfinn! Oh, my God. I'm so sorry! I tried to stop MacNair, but—"

Whatever Hermione'd been expecting in response, it was not for the golden-haired wizard to wrap his arms around her and pull her tight against his chest. But, sooner than she could actually form a response to  _that_ , he slackened his hold, pulling her back just enough to look down at her.

"Did Reina come home?"

Her brow furrowed and she shook her head, her chestnut eyes wide and frantic to match his, now. "I thought she was with you!"

He shook his head, his massive shoulders slumping. "We were released separately."

Only when he slipped one arm from her to cup her chin with his hand did Hermione notice that he was still holding her to him. He tilted her head, his gaze raking over the ugly yellow of the fading bruise on her cheek.

There was a flash of anger across his face, but she could see him struggle to bite back whatever he was going to say. After a strained few seconds, he finally managed, "It wasn't your fault. MacNair was  _going_  to take her, no matter what you did."

As Hermione stared up at him, she could see he looked pale . . . . The circles under his eyes had circles of their own, and the fingers holding her chin trembled ever so slightly against her skin.

"What did they  _do_  to you two?"

He remembered what Reina said—she didn't want Hermione to know what had happened to her. "I'm fine, Princess," he said, shaking his head, but his entire body drooped then. He crumpled to his knees before her, one arm still around her waist. "They just . . . didn't concern themselves with our sustenance."

He hadn't eaten since she'd last seen him? But that was three  _days_  ago! Thorfinn Rowle ate three servings worth of food in one meal! He was probably starving.

"C'mon," she said, tugging uselessly at his arm. "You've got to come down to the kitchen and eat something."

"No, I've got to go find Reina."

Hermione felt strangely calmed by Reina's secrets. After being kidnapped and starved by the Death Eaters, she might've gone to the Resistance to hide. It was a smart move, and exactly the sort of thing she'd expect Reina to do. They would probably receive a missive from some mysterious, unmarked location assuring them she was fine, just so they wouldn't worry.

But she could not break Reina's confidence about that.

Shaking her head, she tugged at his arm, again. "You'll do her no good if you can't even walk. You are hungry and exhausted, and you're _going_  to do as I say!"

"Really?" he asked, his well-noted exhaustion tearing at him. He closed his eyes, his forehead dropping against her stomach as he breathed out an exhausted chuckle. "Because I'm sure I'm ready to fall asleep right here."

Brows pinching together, she gave an airy—albeit mildly exasperated—laugh of her own. She leaned over the banister to shout toward the kitchen, but as her gaze swept the lower level, she saw the dark-haired man was already standing down there. He'd obviously been drawn by the commotion, and had witnessed their strained little reunion.

Thorfinn might not be arguing about food, but she was pretty certain if she insisted he rest, too, before beginning his search, he wouldn't have it. That he already seemed to be dozing lightly against her was beside the point, apparently. "Dolohov, help him to the kitchen, please!"

Nodding, Antonin put aside his feelings at the display he'd seen and hurried up the steps. Grabbing one of the younger wizard's wrists, he pulled him from Hermione and hoisted him up, securing Thorfinn's arm around his shoulders.

Thorfinn blinked at the man a few times, his eyes bleary. "You're still here?"

"He was determined not to leave until you returned," Hermione informed as she followed them down to the first floor. "Kept doing annoying things, like making sure I ate."

There was a smile in her voice, a genuine one. And Antonin couldn't help a chuckle as he shook his head.

As they reached the foot of the stairs, Thorfinn turned his head, meeting the other wizard's gaze. "Thank you."

With a shrug, Antonin continued dragging him toward the kitchen. "Suppose it's nice that one of you has said it."

Hermione frowned, her shoulders drooping. "I'd have said it . . . eventually, and once you were headed out the door with a clean track record of  _not_  having done anything nefarious."

* * *

With a few bowls of the hearty stew Antonin had fixed for lunch in his belly, Thorfinn pushed away from the table and climbed to his feet. At his announcement that he was now off to find Reina, Hermione bounced up to stand, as well.

He turned to look at her. "And where are you going?"

"With you, of course."

Rounding the table to stand behind her chair, he pushed it in behind her knees so that she fell into the seat. "Oh, no, you're not."

With a muttered sound like a growl—causing Antonin's brows to shoot up as he watched the interaction—she slid sideways along the table, freeing herself from the compact placement. "Oh, yes, I most certainly am!"

"You know what I have to do if you go with me," he said, his voice low.

"I'm aware, but Reina is my friend. D'you get that?" She turned on her heel and stomped from the kitchen.

Returning in a blink, she slammed her leash down on the table in front of him. "As stated," she said, ignoring Antonin's startled gaze as it settled on the item. "I am  _aware_. But you're  _not_ going without me. You're in no fit state to look for your own two feet on your own, let alone your sister. You'll need a second pair of eyes."

She shook her head, swallowing hard as she dropped her gaze to the floor. "If that means I have to be leashed, then so be it."

"I'll go."

The bickering pair turned to face the other occupant of the kitchen.

"What?" they said at the same moment.

Antonin shrugged, wiping is mouth as he stood from his own seat at the table. "Your witch is correct, Thorfinn. You're in no fit state to go searching for  _anyone_. You don't want to leash her, any more than she wants to be leashed, but I've got a funny feeling that if you manage to leave without her, you'll  _never_ hear the end of it."

Hermione made that unpleasant grimace as Thorfinn hid a laugh and shook his head.

"I am a  _trained_  tracker. Let me go find Miss Rowle while you rest. If she's still not found after you've gotten a decent amount of sleep,  _then_  you come search with me."

After what seemed forever, the golden-haired wizard finally nodded. "Okay . . . okay."

Nodding, Antonin looked to Hermione. "Let's get him settled in his room, then I'll be off."

Neither of them had seemed to notice—at least not enough to argue the point—Antonin's reference to Hermione as  _Thorfinn'_ s witch.

* * *

Antonin looked on as Hermione settled the covers over Thorfinn. Despite his protest, it seemed he was dozing the moment his head hit the pillow.

"Maybe when he wakes, he'll have the presence of mind to shower."

Hermione snickered and shook her head as she stepped back. "Oh, he's not that bad, actually. I spent months in a stinky old tent with two teenage wizards. Believe  _me_ , I've caught wind of much worse scents."

The dark-haired man uttered a quite chuckle.

"Um . . . ." Hermione turned to face him, twisting her hands nervously before her. "Thank—thank you for doing this. _And_  for watching over me."

A smile curved the corners of his mouth upward, but he repressed his urge to step closer to her. "You're welcome."

"I still don't trust you as far as I can throw you," she said with a shrug. "But I no longer believe you've got any plans to murder me, so I suppose that's a step up."

"I suppose it is. I will be on my way, now,  _kotyonok_ *****." He turned stepped through the door.

Frowning, Hermione couldn't help following after him. "What was that?"

He halted mid-stride. Clearing his throat, he tried to hide a smirk as he turned his head to look at her over his shoulder. "Kitten. On account of your skittish behavior in my presence."

She scowled. But, no matter, she needed a private word with him, anyway, if he was as skilled a tracker as he claimed. Glancing back toward the sleeping wizard, she ventured a few feet into the corridor.

"If you find Reina, and . . . ." Hermione sighed, her frame slumping a bit. "If you find Reina, and she doesn't  _want_  to be found . . . tell her to at least send a letter, or something, so he doesn't worry himself sick trying to find her."

Antonin's first reaction was to respond to her concern over Thorfinn, but then her request garnered far more of his attention. "You know something, about where she might've gone, rather than coming home?"

"I have a  _feeling_." Of course, if she was with a member of the Resistance, the Death Eater's attempt to find her might not go well, but again, Hermione knew she couldn't say anything further without compromising the secret Reina had left her with.

Perfectly aware he'd get no more out of the stubborn witch—not without resorting to torture, which she was only just beginning to think he  _wouldn't_  resort to with her—he nodded. "Very well."

After watching him walk down the stairs and through the main floor to the double doors, Hermione wasn't quite certain what to do with herself. She needed to occupy her mind while she waited for word back, but she also didn't trust Thorfinn not to wake and try to sneak out to aid Antonin if she left him alone.

She stifled a laugh at the mental picture of a man Thorfinn's size trying to  _sneak_  anywhere. Finally deciding what to do, Hermione retrieved a book from her room and settled into a chair in Thorfinn's room.

* * *

***Phonetic pronunciation of _котенок_ , using the English alphabet (as verified by Canimal).**


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

The words on the page before her kept blurring in and out of focus. With a tired sigh, Hermione rubbed her eyes with thumb and forefinger, followed by a series of hard blinks and tried again.

Everything was so quiet. It had to be early evening by now, and the only sounds that punctuated the silence of the room where Thorfinn's occasional snores.

The stillness, coupled with the awareness that the other person in the room was dozing peacefully just reminded her that she'd only had a few hours sleep, total, while Antonin Dolohov had been in the house. When Thorfinn had burst through the doors, the rush of energy that had come with that moment had made it easy for her to forget how exhausted  _she_  was.

But now . . . .

Now as she sat, curled sideways in the chair that faced the bed, with the book open against her lap and his sleeping form in easy view, getting a little shut-eye seemed all she could think about.

It really didn't help that someone his size—someone with his history of destructive behavior—could look so peaceful like this.

Giving her head a good, clearing shake, she returned her attention to her book. Hermione barely noticed when her eyelids drifted down and did not drift back up.

* * *

Antonin stepped from the front gates of Hogwarts, a frown marring his features. Neither Theo, nor the veritable  _children_  who'd escorted Miss Rowle from the castle had seemed to know where she'd gone.

There was a small comfort, however, in their assurance that she'd walked off  _alone_. If MacNair _ever_  pieced together the deception Antonin had worked out with Theo to keep that vile wizard from harming the pretty witch further, he would probably stop at nothing to make up for what he would imagine as _lost time_  with her.

As though preferring unwilling partners wasn't enough, Walden MacNair also had quite the vindictive streak. What a charming combination, Antonin considered with a scowl. And he'd thought he hadn't liked that wretched man  _before_ this.

Clearing his head with a quick, vigorous shake, he drew his wand. He needed to think about the subject of his search, otherwise the tracking spell would only lead him to MacNair. Antonin didn't think he could even stomach being in the same room with that man, just now.

He drew a deep breath and let it out slowly, concentrating on the last interaction he'd had with Reina Rowle. He thought of those blue eyes that had stared into his, her golden hair mussed and tangled from her ordeal as it draped her shoulders.

The pleading tone in her soft voice as she'd called out to him from the other side of the bars.

Antonin felt a jolt in his hand and he looked down. Faint blue energy arced from his wand, lighting to form small, dainty footprints before him. As he followed the trail, the glow of her steps vanished in his wake.

After several meters, he thought for certain Miss Rowle's path was leading him to Hogsmeade. Casting a cursory glance about to ensure no one was following  _him_ , the Death Eater continued after the faintly glowing footsteps.

His quest a fortunate one, he decided. The sparkling snowfall covering the ground combined with the dwindling light of early evening to hide her trail from anyone not specifically looking for it.

Into town, and past crowds and establishments he walked. Only his keen spatial awareness kept him from colliding with any drunk wizards or witches stumbling from the pub.

Night was creeping closer the longer he trailed her footsteps, causing an uneasy feeling to settle in the pit of his stomach. Worse, the further they went, the less sense he was able to make of her path.

Then it occurred to him how bad of shape her brother had been in just a few hours earlier. Miss Rowle was strong, but she did not possess the same level of physical sturdiness Thorfinn did.

She was quiet probably stumbling by this point in her journey.

It was his understanding that they'd released her rather early that morning. Likely before any shopkeepers or patrons were about to notice the undoubtedly bedraggled young woman.

Finally, the trail led him into an alleyway beside the Hog's Head. And the last of the footsteps vanished beneath his own feet as he surveyed the darkened passageway.

This was the  _same_  alley where Thorfinn had let those Undesirables slip away, causing all this. Antonin didn't know if that was simply an awful coincidence, or some terrible cosmic joke on the lot of them.

There was an odd sensation through him, like a fist closing around his heart as he noticed . . . .

Crumpled in a shadowed corner of one of the buildings was Reina Rowle.

His frame sagging at the sight of the young witch huddled there, he hurried to remove his cloak and crossed to her on silent footfalls. As he drew nearer, he saw her eyes were closed, and shivers wracked her.

If he hadn't found her . . . .

Shaking his head to banish the thought, he lowered himself to his knees before her draped his cloak over her.

Reina gave a start at the sensation of the warm, thick fabric falling around her. Opening her eyes sluggishly, she found herself staring into the dark eyes of Antonin Dolohov.

"Mr. Dolohov?"

"Miss Rowle." He shook his head at her and forced a smile. "You sent me to check on another witch, when it seems the one who needed supervision was you, all along."

"I'm fine," she said, forcing a grin of her own, though it was a faulty and pitiful display.

Frowning, he bit his lip to keep in the retort that she was very obviously  _not_  fine. He suddenly did not envy Thorfinn so much, he thought, as he slipped his arms around the witch and stood. The younger wizard had been in a house with  _two_  stubborn and opinionated women.

If not for the grim and deplorable extenuating circumstances, he might've actually considered his time in the dungeons a reprieve.

"Why did you come here, of all places?"

As he started walking, carrying her easily, she looked back at the alleyway over his shoulder. "I was . . . . I was waiting for someone."

Antonin tried not to let himself dwell on her words, tried not to connect them to the incident half a week ago. He couldn't let the thought in his head that perhaps she was looking for the Undesirables they'd encountered.

"I'm taking you home. You brother and Miss Granger are very worried about you."

She snapped her head in his direction so fast the motion actually gave him a start. "No, no, please don't!"

He frowned, ignoring that some people had stopped to watch the Death Eater, standing there in simple robes as he held a cloaked mystery witch in his arms. "Miss Rowle, I'm not sure I unders—"

"If you take me back, it only mean You Know How can use me against Finnie, again," she said in a trembling whisper. "I can't let that happen. For his sake, but also for my own. I . . . ." She paused, licking her parched lips, and Antonin finally spied a crack in her armor as tears gathered in the corners of her eyes. "I can't go through something like  _that_ again, please."

His broad shoulders drooped as he stared back at her. "What is it you want me to do?" he asked, his voice low and mystified.

The smallest smile formed on her lips, tired, but genuine and pleading. "Help me."

Antonin shook his head in silence as he held her gaze, not in rejection of her request, but in thought. Helping her would mean hiding her. Where the bloody hell could he hide a witch? If he had his own home, that wouldn't be difficult, but he'd been a guest at Lestrange Manor since his escape from Azkaban.

Even if he could somehow secret her away in the vast house, Rabastan was bound to discover the subterfuge at some point. The man was many things, but stupid was not one of them.

If only he could think of someone who could be swayed to help against the Dark Lord seeking to use her against her brother, again. But there was no one who . . . .

"Wait," he said, his shocked voice barely a thread of sound against the night air. There  _was_ someone the Dark Lord had betrayed quite gravely.

And it was certainly the last place anyone would think to look for Reina Rowle.

Trying for an encouraging grin—and pretty certain he was failing, as he had so little experience offering supportive expressions—he nodded. "I think I know someone who might be willing to assist us."

* * *

Thorfinn opened his eyes slowly in the night-darkened room. Shapes swam into focus and his muscles screamed at him as he shifted beneath the covers. His body positively ached, and he was still dead tired, despite his awareness that he'd slept for hours, already.

Three days of no sleep or food really took a toll on a man.

He wanted to get up and run downstairs. He wanted to find Antonin and help him search for Reina . . . . but if he let his stubborn streak quiet down for a few moments, he knew he'd realize that he really was in no fit state to assist.

He doubted very much he'd even make it down the steps without stumbling as he was now. Hermione'd been right—though he would never use those words aloud, she'd get too much satisfaction from it—he would be useless in the search for Reina like this. When the sun peeked through the windows,  _that_ would be when the witch and wizard who'd forced him into his bed would believe he'd gotten enough sleep.

Never would he have thought it, but he actually  _did_ trust Antonin to find his sister. That helped a great deal with the anxiety he knew would be gnawing at him, otherwise. Didn't mean he had to like it.

Holding in a sigh, Thorfinn rolled onto his side. Just as he lowered his eyelids, his gaze swept over the sleeping witch, curled up in the chair.

He frowned as he watched her for a moment. Merlin, she was going to be in worse shape than him if she slept in a ball like that all night.

With a quiet, pained groan, he pushed back the covers and eased himself into a sitting position. Bloody hell, he could swear he was more tired  _now_  than he'd be if he'd gotten no sleep, at all.

Climbing to his feet, he winced.  _Definitely_  not in a fit state to be of much aid, just now. Helplessness was _not_  a feeling Thorfinn Rowle was much accustomed to, and he hated it with a passion.

He crossed the floor to the chair and lowered himself carefully. As he scooped her into his arms and stood he noticed she was shivering. Ducking his head, he pressed his cheek lightly to her forehead. Her skin was chilled.

Silly woman. They might be indoors, but it was still winter; she should've at least dragged a blanket in here with her.

Thorfinn knew he should bring her to her own room, but he knew he was lucky to still be standing. An attempt to traverse the corridor while tired and disoriented might end rather unpleasantly for both of them.

His gaze cut to his own bed.

He also knew she was probably going to be  _furious_  when she woke up, he thought, as he climbed back into the bed and lay down, the witch still cradled against him. But, as he pulled the covers up over both of them, he decided he was currently too tired to care.

Tightening his arms around her, Thorfinn buried his face in Hermione's wild hair and drifted back to sleep.

* * *

"Mr. Dolohov, wait!" Reina called as he left the impromptu safe house.

He turned back to face the witch, frowning at her. "Miss Rowle, you should be resting, now."

Glancing back over her shoulder into the foyer, she hurried stand in front of him. Already she looked better than she had when he'd brought her here a few hours ago. A decent meal, a warm bath and fresh robes made her ordeal seem worlds away, though he knew there was no way it wasn't still at the forefront of her thoughts.

"The letter you asked for," she said holding out a folded slip of parchment.

"Oh." He nodded, accepting it. "Thank you, I can't imagine how I'd forgotten. This will put them at ease, I'm sure."

For an odd moment, the two simply stood there.

Dropping his gaze, he cleared his throat. "I am still not entirely certain what to tell them."

Reina shrugged as she thought on how to explain him finding her, but not bringing her home without letting on that he knew where she was. If she were a witch from any other family, she might not have thought she could ask a Death Eater for help and actually receive it.

Yet, here they were, with her safely hidden away  _because_ of Antonin Dolohov.

"Tell them you found me, and I handed you that letter and then Disapparated. There was no way for you to tell where I went."

So simple, but perfect, an explanation. And one that hadn't occurred to him, because he'd been thinking too hard on the matter.

He nodded, his gaze on the letter in his hands. "Stay safe, Miss Rowle."

The brush of her lips against his cheek startled him. He must be quite tired, himself, he realized, if he hadn't noticed the witch step closer to him and stand on her toes to reach his face.

"Thank you, Mr. Dolohov," she said softly, smiling warmly before she stepped back into the house and closed the door between them.

With a smile of his own, he noddedm once more. "You're welcome," he said, though he knew she didn't hear him.

* * *

Hermione awoke, comfortable in an unfamiliar way that she didn't quite understand. She was so warm, she just wanted to snuggle deep into her surroundings and fall back to sleep.

She could pretend to be angry with him later. Now, however, she was just too cozy to care.

Pulling his arms more securely around her, she cuddled back against him.

A deep, rumbling chuckle erupted behind her. "You might want to be careful how you move when a man first wakes up."

"Thorfinn?"

"Yes, Princess?"

"Are we in your bed?"

"Yes."

Frowning, she shifted just enough to turn her head and meet his sleepy gaze. "Why are  _we_  in  _your_ bed?"

His expression deadpan, he said, "You were cold."

"Uh-huh." She pursed her lips in thought for a moment as she stared at him. When she'd woken up on that late January morning to find herself in Thorfinn Rowle's arms, she'd thought she'd most certainly died and gone to Hell. She'd probably have bargained away her soul to get away from him.

Now, she couldn't think of any reason to extract herself from his embrace. And she wasn't certain she wanted to try, either.

"And what, may I ask, was wrong with my bed?"

He shrugged, perfectly aware of the movement of his body against hers. "Yours is a little smaller than mine. I wasn't certain we'd both fit."

Hermione laughed in spite of herself, her head shaking. "You and your antics. I can't  _believe_  I actually missed you while you were gone." The words fell from her lips thoughtlessly, and by the time she realized what she was saying, they were already out.

Chestnut eyes wide, she held his surprised gaze.

"Did you really, Princess?" he asked, his voice low in that way that seemed to rumble across her skin.

She felt her breath catch in her throat as she watched his gaze—watched the way it lowered from her eyes, traveling down her face to rest on her lips. "Yes," she forced the word out, surprised she could speak with him looking at her like this. "But now that you're back, I can't for the life of me think of why."

Thorfinn smirked. "Someone's certainly cheeky first thing in the morning."

When, precisely had he gotten so close that she could feel his breath whispering across her skin? She wasn't entirely sure. Just like she had no idea when she'd tipped her head back angling her face toward his.

_Just a little more,_  she thought, shifting back against him to get closer, still.

Biting his bottom lip, he only smirked again as he lowered his head toward hers.

"Thorfinn!"

He grimaced unpleasantly, growling under his breath at the sound of Antonin's voice. If the other man's presence didn't have to do with Reina . . . . "Any other morning, I'd  _kill_  him."

Folding her lips to hold in a giggle, Hermione slipped from his arms and climbed out of the bed. "I'll go see what news he has. You, um, stay there and . . . calm down a little."

Thorfinn groaned and threw himself back against his pillows.

* * *

Hermione was not oblivious to the way Antonin's eyes widened as he watched her step from Thorfinn's bedroom. Her hair probably looked like who-did-it-and-ran, and she could only imagine her face was flushed.

She supposed there was no real point in trying to explain that it wasn't what it looked like, because it sort of  _was_. At least a little bit, anyway.

Meeting him halfway along the staircase, she couldn't help looking past him to the ground floor. There was part of her that knew he'd be alone, but she couldn't help the ache of disappointment in the center of her chest at finding it to be true.

"You were right," he said, his tone hushed. "She didn't want to come home, I'm sorry."

"But she's safe, right?"

He offered her a small smile as he nodded. "As requested." Antonin withdrew the letter from the folds of his cloak and held it out to her. "Please tell Thorfinn she Disapparated after giving me this. I think he'll probably take it better coming from you than me, anyway."

Hermione nodded as she turned the letter over in her fingers. She knew this was safest for Reina, but she couldn't help feeling a little heartbroken to not know when she might see her friend, again.

Sniffling, she said as she watched him turn and start back down the staircase. "Thank you for this, Dolohov."

Meeting her gaze over his shoulder, he nodded.

She waited on the staircase, watching him walk through the house and out the doors. Only when they were closed behind him did she return up the steps and into Thorfinn's room.

"Well, did he find her?"

Hermione couldn't look him in the eyes as she crossed the room to sit on the bed. "Yes, but, um . . . . But she's not here."

He sat up, his face stern and eyes narrowed. "What do you mean, she's not here? Where _is_  she?"

"I don't know. She's safe, but she's not coming home."

His lips pulled back from his teeth in a frightening expression as he grated out the words, "I'm going to  _kill_  Dolohov."

She put all of her strength into pushing against his shoulders to keep him on the bed as he tried to climb out from under the covers. "No, no,  _stop_! It wasn't his fault."

Ceasing his struggle before he injured her by accident, he shook his head. "What  _happened_?"

Afraid to hold his gaze as she furnished him with what she felt certain was probably a lie, she turned her attention to the letter in her hand. "He caught up to her, but she handed him this and then Disapparated. By the time he realized, she was gone."

He made no move to take the letter, only staring at the parchment. She did him the courtesy of pretending she didn't notice the sheen in his blue eyes.

Her tongue darting out to wet her lips, she shrugged. "Would . . . would you like  _m_ e to—?"

"Yes. Please."

Nodding, she shifted on the bed to rest her back against the pillows beside him. Unfolding the parchment, she allowed herself a few deep breaths before reading it. She had a feeling she knew what her friend had written, but she still needed to brace herself.

_"Finnie,_

_"I am so sorry that I must tell you this in a letter, but I will not return home. For my own sake, as well as yours, I simply can't. I can't allow myself to be harmed as a punishment to you, again, nor can I allow you to worry that such a thing could be repeated._

_"I can't protect you, I've never really believed I could, but you can't protect me, either. I don't hold you responsible for what happened, but I will not return until the day I know I can feel safe in my own home, again._

_"Hermione,_

_"In the time you've been with us, you've become quite a dear friend to me, I dare say my best. I am sorry to leave you, but unlike me, Finnie can protect you, because no one knows you actually mean something to him."_

Hermione paused in her reading, lifting her gaze to meet Thorfinn's. After a few heartbeats, he looked away, his slumped posture one of defeat.

_"I love you both. I know I can count on the two of you to take care of each other. I'm certain we'll see another again._

_"Reina."_

Closing the letter, she wiped at her tearing eyes with the back of her hand. She'd known, dammit! She'd been prepared, she'd braced for it, yet  _still_ , Reina's words of farewell had undone her.

Thorfinn was hunched over beside her, curled in on himself. He didn't move; for several heartbeats, she wasn't even certain if he was breathing.

Swallowing hard, she reached out, resting her hand on his shoulder. "Thorfinn, are you—?"

He turned in a quick, smooth motion, slipping his arms around her and holding her close as he leaned into her.

Startled by the embrace, but understanding that he probably didn't know what to say, she simply held onto him. Moving to lay back, she pulled him with her. Hermione shifted against him and guided him to pillow his head in the hollow of her shoulder.

For few minutes, neither spoke or moved, save for her fingers stroking the scraggy edges of his beard in a gesture of comfort.

"I might never see my sister, again," he said finally, his voice low and hollow. "What am I supposed to do with that?"

She frowned, sniffling as she shook her head. For so long, all Reina and Thorfinn had had was each other. She had no idea how either of them was going to be able to handle the separation, even if it was for their own good.

"You've found one of the few questions I've _no_  idea how to answer," she whispered, her eyes closing in response as he held her tighter.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

Thorfinn realized he must've drifted off only when he opened his eyes a few hours later. Hermione wasn't in the bed with him, and he could hear the water running in the tub of his en-suite bathroom.

With a sigh, he pulled himself up, resting his weight on his elbows. "Princess?"

"Running you a bath. You're starting to need it."

Shaking his head, he uttered a chuckle in spite of himself. Then his attention fell to the letter from Reina, where Hermione had left it on the bedside table.

Against his better judgement, he reached out and picked up the slip of folded parchment. He was well aware what she'd written, but he still braced himself as he opened it, his gaze tracing over his sister's familiar writing.

He didn't read the words, he only weighed the steadiness of the quill strokes, the even and perfect lines and loops.

Thorfinn thought that perhaps if she'd been in distress when she wrote these words, she might change her mind. Yet, the handwriting showed a picture of perfect calm. She'd been at peace with her decision when she made it.

Dropping the letter back down, he shut his eyes, his head shaking. She would never return while she was still in danger . . . she would always be in danger while he remained under the thumb of the Dark Lord. And one did not simply  _get out_  from under from under the Dark Lord's thumb—not while they still breathed.

As long as he ruled, Thorfinn might never see his sister again.

"Are you all right?"

He turned his head, casting his gaze over his shoulder toward Hermione, but not actually looking at her. "I don't know."

Pursing her lips thoughtfully, she nodded. "Well, um, the bath is ready, and neither of us has eaten since yesterday afternoon, so I'm going to pop down to the kitchen and put something together. Should probably bring something to Uncle, too. I'm just hoping he snoozed long enough that he didn't even notice the missed meals."

Thorfinn pulled himself to sit up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed to plant his feet on the floor. "Sounds good."

Nodding once more, she walked around the bed toward the door. His hand shooting out to catch her wrist stopped her midstride.

Hermione turned back to face him. "Thorfinn?"

He forced a gulp down his throat as he lifted his gaze to hers. For a few strained heartbeats, it seemed he couldn't find his voice.

Shoulder drooping, she stepped back toward him.

"I, um . . . ." Shaking his head, he looked to the floor as he ran his tongue across his lips in a nervous gesture. "It's strange to say this, given our  _unique_ circumstances, but if you hadn't been here . . . ." He forced another hard gulp before he brought his eyes to hers, once more. "I really don't know what I'd have done."

The utter seriousness of the moment tore at her heart. She wasn't even sure how much heart she had left to rend just now, after Reina's farewell.

Plastering on a small grin, she said, "Thorfinn Rowle, are you actually  _thanking_ me?"

He simply stared at her a few seconds before he breathed out a chuckle. "You sure know how to ruin a moment, Princess."

With a soft laugh, she shook her head at him. Against her own better judgement, Hermione lowered herself to kneel before him. The rather serious look of shock clouding his features as he waited to see what she would do was nearly enough to make her laugh, again.

Cupping his face with her hands, she held his gaze for a breathless moment. She could swear her heart was beating so hard and fast it might burst right out of her rib cage. Her logical brain attempted to remind her that the man she was being so gentle with was Death Eater Thorfinn Rowle, famed for his temper, for his destructive behavior and tendency toward violent outbursts.

Yet, those things had ceased to define him for her—she supposed it probably helped that he never really showed that side of himself anymore.

Had Reina been correct in her assertion the other night?  _Was_  Hermione's presence responsible for the change in him?

Leaning closer, she let her eyes drifted closed and pressed her lips to his. She held herself there until she felt him respond, the pressure of his mouth against hers increasing just a bit, and then she pulled back, again.

Her forehead touching his, she kept her eyes closed as she breathed out from between pursed lips. "Thorfinn?"

"Yes, Princess?"

"Do me one favor?"

There was a smirk in his tone as he asked, "What's that?"

Opening her eyes, she waited for him to open his, as well. Crinkling the bridge of her nose as she held his gaze, she said, "Brush your teeth."

Dropping his head back, he let out a sound that was half self-derisive laugh, half pained groan.

Biting back a grin, Hermione extracted herself from his arms and finally left the room. All along the staircase and through the quiet house, she tried to get her pulse under control and steady her breathing.

Not a simple feat when she knew she'd wanted _so_  much more than that chaste kiss.

She took her time preparing the food and a fresh pot of coffee for them, and a cup of tea for Uncle—she even brought the old man his meal at a leisurely pace. Convincing him that he'd had a lovely roast for dinner last night, and that when she tried to wake him for breakfast this morning, he'd shooed her away to let him sleep longer had added a nice twenty or so minutes to her task.

Everything she could do to ensure Thorfinn'd had plenty of time to bathe and dress in fresh clothes, she did. Though Hermione was positive the resulting activities would be fun, she wasn't certain she was ready to walk in on him in the bath, or in  _any_  state of undress, just yet.

All the while as she'd been puttering about his bathroom and drawing his bath as she waited for him to wake, she kept turning over what had happened a few hours earlier in her head. Kept wondering how far things would have gone if Antonin's interruption hadn't stopped them before they could even get started.

The plain truth of it was that since waking in his arms that morning, she could think of little else but the sudden—though she'd hardly try to call it inexplicable—desire to climb Thorfinn Rowle like a tree.

Groaning, Hermione spared a moment from her task to bury her face in her hands. It hadn't helped in the least that with how close their bodies had pressed together beneath the covers, she could tell he was  _quite_  ready to take things however far she might've been willing to go.

She took a deep breath, exhaling slowly and forcefully as she wiped her hands over her face and carefully finger-combed her wild hair. Her initial plan had been to bring up a tray and dine with him in his room, but given the varying instances emotional intensity that had passed between them in that very space today, she thought maybe having him to come down to the kitchen to eat was the less pulse-quickening option.

Nodding to herself, she finally headed to Thorfinn's room to tell him the meal was ready. She—apparently forgetting her manners with the unexpected closeness between them since his return home—opened the door to his room just as he finished pulling on his robes.

She put in effort to maintain her focus, despite the wink he offered her as he informed her that if she was trying to catch peek, he'd be happy to disrobe and let her pretend to stumble in on him, as she told him to come downstairs for their horribly belated brunch. Although she wasn't certain how she managed, she mustered up a withering scowl—though she could feel the slip of a half-grin that tempered the intended displeasure of the expression—and left the room in a feigned huff.

He was probably going to extend her title from  _Princess_  to  _Princess Mood-killer_  at this rate. She knew one of them had to be of a mind to stop them before things could start, as she had the feeling that once they _did_  get started, they weren't going to stop until they were both breathless and sweaty and entirely spent.

Hermione rolled her eyes at herself as she preceded him down the staircase and through the house, trying to dismiss the mental picture of tangled bed sheets and clothes strew across the floor that accompanied said  _feeling._

* * *

A week passed, and Hermione and Thorfinn were struggling to settle into a balance similar to what they'd had when Reina was still there. Whether it was simply her absence, or the changes to the dynamic between them that made the transition so difficult, neither was sure.

Though they still functioned in nearly the same way as they had before, there was a new level to each interaction. Lingering glances when they thought the other didn't notice, fleeting touches when they weren't necessary—her hand on his arm, his fingers through her hair, skin brushing skin when one held something for the other to take. There were long patches of silence during meals, when they were  _painfully_ aware of one another's presence.

She had no idea how Thorfinn was handling the matter, but Hermione felt like she was ready to crawl out of her skin—never mind that  _she_  was the catalyst behind them not doing anything about the rise in tension between them.

* * *

On the eighth night of their time without Reina, the bell rang just as they were finishing up dinner. Quite without discussion, they'd come to the mutual decision just two days earlier to take meals in the kitchen, instead of the dining room. The smaller, more cluttered space somehow made the clear fact that they were _alone_  less woefully obvious.

The layout of the house allowed for a better view of the entryway from the kitchen than from the dining room, Hermione noticed as she went to peek out and see who was there. She realized on that night that now seemed so long ago, Reina must've recognized Rabastan from his too-fine-for-any-occasion cloak and the way he held himself, because while  _she_  could clearly identify the two men waiting at the doors from where she stood, the dining room window's placement was at an angle that would've obscured his face.

She turned to face Thorfinn, her shoulders drooped and a pout tugging her lips downward. "It's Antonin—"

"So why the face?" he asked as he wiped his mouth with his napkin and stood from the table. "I thought you didn't mind him so much after everything."

Uttering an airy, nervous laugh, Hermione nodded. "Antonin I  _don't_  mind so much anymore, it's that he'd brought Rabastan Lestrange with him."

His dark-gold brows shooting up, Thorfinn shook his head. "It's likely the other way around. No one  _brings_  Rabastan anywhere; he pretty much just does as he pleases and drags others with  _him_."

Holding in a grumble, she trailed after him to the door to greet their not-necessarily-welcome guests.

As expected, the moment Thorfinn opened the door, Rabastan swept in, eager to greet Hermione. He wasn't quite as handsy as last time, however, instead holding her at arm's length to look her over. She had gotten so accustomed to her new wardrobe that she nearly forgot she looked like a  _proper_ witch more often than not these days.

"Well, now, don't you clean up nice?" He tugged her close and dropped a kiss on her cheek quicker than she could even voice a protest. "Makes me think I shouldn't have stayed away so long."

Just beyond him, she could see Thorfinn glowering at the man, and Antonin trying—and failing—the hide a scowl. But Thorfinn recovered quickly, giving her a stern look that reminded her of the charade they had to uphold around others.

Not that she'd really forgotten, but things had indeed been different between them the last time Rabastan had visited.

"How lovely to see you again, Mr. Lestrange," she said with a tight-lipped smile.

It seemed he was about to drop a completely unnecessary kiss to the back of her hand—which he had yet to relinquish—when Thorfinn clapped a hand on Rabastan's shoulder. From the way the dark-haired wizard stumbled just a bit under the weight, Hermione was guessing Thorfinn used a  _little_ more force than strictly necessary.

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Antonin bite back a grin; he'd clearly noticed, as well. Moments like this made her think she  _did_  rather like the imposing man's company.

"To what do we owe the pleasure of your company this evening?"

"You must've forgotten about our invitation to Malfoy Manor. Lucius is finally making good on his offer to have us over to sample some of the priceless spirits from his wine cellar."

Antonin rolled his eyes in a show of impatience that made Hermione think there was more to the story.

"Are you all right, Mr. Dolohov?"

Dark eyes narrowing at her—he thought he'd been subtler about his discomfort—he said, "I'm fine, Miss Granger, but Rabastan is playing coy about his real reason for insisting on a visit."

With an eye-roll of his own, Rabastan gave a dismissive wave of his hand. "All right, all right. I admit it, I want a look at Lucius' goddaughter. If she's even half the woman her mother was in her youth, then the young lady must be quite delectable, indeed."

Hermione tried to repress a shiver of revulsion. Whoever this other witch was, heavens help her. She did find it a little odd that Rabastan Lestrange was such a handsome man, as he exhibited the heavy-handed and insistent behavior of one overcompensating for a  _lack_  of physical charms.

Of course, she thought there was always a chance his bits didn't match his stature, but she really didn't want to think about Rabastan Lestrange's  _wand_.

Hermione wasn't sure what she was going to do with an evening to herself, maybe she'd go and pester Uncle if she got _really_  bored. Though, there was something, some fleeting memory that was nagging at her, but she couldn't put her finger on it just now—she was too relieved that her time with Rabastan tonight would be so short.

"Well, you gentleman have a lovely evening," she said with a smile.

Then Thorfinn's face fell, Antonin winced, and Rabastan turned the full force of his most syrupy grin on her.

And she remembered . . . .  _Oh, bollocks._

"Didn't your owner tell you, sweet little pet?" This time, as he captured her hand once more, he did place a kiss on it, warm and a little wet and entirely too long. "You are accompanying us."

She tried not to make it obvious how her frame drooped. As she extracted her hand from the wizard's unwelcome clutches, she nodded. "I suppose I'll get our cloaks, then."

As she left them in the foyer, she heard Rabastan's voice behind her, yet his words were not meant for her ears.

"As Miss Black might be unsettled by the presence of a known Undesirable, I'm afraid you'll have to leash her, Thorfinn."

Hermione's eyelids drifted down and she swallowed hard. A room full of Death Eaters and the other witch was supposed to find  _her_ threatening?

Rabastan would  _really_  cook up any excuse he could find to see her wear that bloody thing, wouldn't he?

She returned to the foyer, her cloak around her shoulders and Thorfinn's bundled neatly in her arms. For both their sakes, she pretended she hadn't overheard the other wizard's comment.

She also showed the good grace to pretend it didn't bother her when she was told she would be leashed. Though, after Thorfinn had clasped the leather collar around her throat, she had a  _bit_  more trouble pretending she didn't notice the appreciative gleam in Rabastan's eyes.

Rabastan led the way out the door for the four of them to Apparate to the gates of Malfoy Manor. After he was gone, the other two wizards turned their attention to her.

Hermione gave a little start as she noticed both Thorfinn's and Antonin's gazes on her. "What?"

"Are you all right with this?"

At Thorfinn's question, she couldn't help but frown—she'd have to keep that in check once they were in front of prying eyes, again. "No other choice  _but_  to be all right with it, have I?"

The wizards exchanged a glance. "I suppose not," Thorfinn said with a shake of his head.

"Just promise me one thing, both of you."

They mirrored one another's expressions as their brows drew upward in question.

"Whatever you do, do  _not_  leave me alone with that man." Leash or no leash, she wouldn't put it past that man to find a way to get her away from everyone else, if he was  _really_ of a mind to.

Both agreed emphatically before Hermione allowed them to take her to Malfoy Manor. It was bad enough she had to be _here_ , she didn't need to couple that unpleasantness with any concern about Rabastan Lestrange's wandering hands.

* * *

"Welcome," Lucius said as he opened the door for them, he seemed in quite a hurry as he ushered them inside.

Once they were beyond the foyer, Hermione understood. Their minor delay had left Rabastan with Lucius' goddaughter.

She tamped down on her own feelings of ill ease as their cloaks were taken by their host—she thought it odd that he went and hung them, himself, rather than calling for a house elf to do it. Were she not so eager to have the evening over, already, she might've had the presence of mind to ask about it.

As he turned back toward them, his grey eyes fell on her leash. Hermione could swear there was a quick flash of irritation across his features at the sight, but he said nothing.

Turning, he led them to the drawing room. She flinched as they entered behind their host, pausing in the doorway for half a heartbeat.

Meeting her gaze, Thorfinn asked under his breath, "What is it?"

She shook her head and squared her shoulders. "Nothing, just . . . trying to  _not_  remember why I hate this place."

Recalling what she'd told him a few weeks ago, he frowned and nodded. There was nothing more comforting he could offer her in their current environment.

"Isla, come meet our other guests."

Hermione snapped her attention to the other witch, who appeared only a few years older than herself. A little taller than her, and noticeably curvy, Isla had long dark hair, the curled locks bit more manageable than Hermione's own. Her dark eyes crinkled at the corners as she smiled at them.

Then she saw the leash and her expression soured. "Why is this woman leashed?"

Lucius' brows drew upward as he explained in a gentle, reminding tone, "I explained this to you, my dear. By order of our Dark Lord she  _must_  be leashed in public settings. Your presence turns this from a meeting of the Dark Lord's followers  _into_  a public setting."

Nodding in understanding, Isla pursed her full lips in thought for a moment. "Well, if that is so, then I shall excuse myself so that such a  _precaution_  is not necessary."

"But, Miss Black," Rabastan said, pouring it on thick as he offered a charming grin. "We were only just getting acquainted."

Hermione didn't miss it when Lucius said in a sing-song whisper, "Isla, my dear, you're being rude."

She cut him a sharp look. " _I'm_ being . . . ." The witch took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Shaking her head, she seemed to collect herself and forced a smile. "Do forgive me, I've just returned from a long stay across the pond. It's left me a bit  _unacquainted_ with proper Wizarding society's ways."

"Yes, her mother Eleanor insisted I take her under my wing to reintroduce her to our more civilized means." Lucius smiled. "Isla, this is Mr. Antonin Dolohov, Mr. Thorfinn Rowle, and Mr. Rowle's . . . ."

Their host looked honestly perplexed for a moment. "I am sorry, Miss Granger, I'm not certain how to introduce you."

" _Miss Granger_  will do, Mr. Malfoy," she said with a grin that looked more like a snarl than any expression of nicety.

"Of course," he replied with an apologetic nod that quite surprised her.

"Call a spade a spade, Lucius," Rabastan practically shouted from across the drawing room—pouring a round for everyone as he started on what was rather obviously his second. "Mr. Rowle's  _pet._  We should all be so lucky to have one just like her."

Hermione rolled her eyes so hard, her lids fluttered and Isla turned a disapproving look on the man.

Rabastan tsked and crossed the room to stand before her, holding a drink out toward her. "Understand, my sweet Miss Black, we are discussing a dangerous criminal here. Thorfinn is doing Wizarding Britain a great service by minding her so."

Isla grudgingly accepted the glass and returned to the other side of the room to sit. "She looks about as dangerous as an angry kitten."

Hermione ignored the quiet chuckle Antonin sputtered behind her.

"Looks can be deceiving, Miss Black," Rabastan said in a reassuring tone as he sat entirely too close to her.

Pointedly turned her attention away from the wizard beside her, she nodded. "Yes, they _certainly_  can."

Antonin stepped further into the room—only then did Hermione notice that they all still lingered in the entryway—to sit on Miss Black's other side. He, however, kept a respectable distance.

Isla took the opportunity to shift on the sofa so that she was more evenly seated between the two wizards. There was no way for Rabastan to shift closer, now, without forcing  _her_ closer to Antonin, and he clearly was in no mood for any imagined competition.

"You seem more tense than usual, Lucius," Rabastan observed as the silver-haired man walked to the collection of filled glasses. "Perhaps you should quit being so stubborn and come with me next time I visit Umbridge Home."

Hermione's stomach soured instantly, and she thought she might vomit on the spot at the mention. Isla looked quite peaked, herself, her pretty face scrunching as she forced her gaze to the floor.

"I assure you, I have _no_  need of such an establishment."

"Oh, stow the pride for one night, man." Rabastan polished off his second drink and started to pour his third.

Hermione realized she and Thorfinn hadn't even had their first round, and the Lestrange heir didn't seem to mind that he wasn't waiting for the other guests to catch up to him.

"Your son understands the finer points of  _such an establishment_."

Her feeling of sickness in the pit of her stomach returned. Draco went to that place? Certainly she'd never had a good thing to say about him when they'd been classmates, but she'd thought she'd seen glimmers during the War, as though there was the potential for a better man inside the scared boy.

No  _better man_  would make use of a place like Umbridge Home.

Draining his own glass, Lucius spoke from between clenched teeth. "That seems an odd argument to use to compel me to visit the place, Rabastan."

"Honestly, Rabastan! Can't you see you're upsetting Miss Black?"

At Antonin's words, the already mildly inebriated wizard looked up. "Oh, my apologies, my sweet. I did not mean to offend."

"And, yet, you're so skilled at it," she muttered with a scowl.

"What?" Rabastan asked, his brows pulling together.

Lucius cut in, again with that soft, reminding tone, "Isla . . . ."

"I said I wasn't offended," she announced in a clear voice. "That place is simply enough to scare any upstanding witch. It's becoming something of a boggart under the bed, used to frighten us into being good little witches."

"I'm certain you're a  _very_  good little witch," Rabastan said, cueing Antonin to drop his head back and groan unattractively.

"Mr. Rowle," Lucius called as he cut back across the room.

Hermione glanced up at Thorfinn. Indeed, they'd both been standing in the entryway, still, simply watching the potential chaos unfold.

"Lucius?"

"It seems Rabastan is on a mission to single-handedly drain my wine cellar tonight, but here I'd only brought up the one bottle. Do you suppose I could borrow Miss Granger to help me bring up a few more?"

Hermione looked up at Thorfinn. He was weighing her expression from the corner of his eye, to see if she was all right with the request.

Honestly, after the conversation that had just taken place between Lucius Malfoy and Rabastan Lestrange, Hermione felt strangely at ease with the idea of escaping the room with the silver-haired wizard. She thought this evening  _could_  have been a pleasant experience, had Rabastan not been in attendance. Or, say, had he been gagged and stuffed in a wardrobe, or something.

She gave a minute nod.

Thorfinn slipped the cuff from his wrist and held it out to Lucius. "Remember, she's a  _dangerous_  criminal."

Hermione's expression hardened into a scowl.

"Hey, you would never allow me to borrow your pet," she heard Rabastan say, his words slurring, as Lucius led her away.

"Yes, well, perhaps that's because I trust Lucius to return her in the same condition he receives her in."

She glanced back over her shoulder to see Thorfinn finally peel his side from the doorjamb and stomp further into the room. No doubt he needed a drink, himself, now that he was engaged in conversation with a drunken Rabastan.

As she was guided through the house, she realized how very odd it felt to be alone with Lucius Malfoy.

But then, as he led her through the cellar door and pulled it closed behind her, he very noticeably dropped the cuff attached to her leash. "Apologies for the display, Miss Granger. But, we must keep up appearances."

Hermione's brows shot up as she tried to understand precisely what was happening.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven**

Swallowing hard, Hermione looked from the dangling cuff—which she was quick to scoop into her own hands—to Lucius Malfoy's face as she tried to make sense of what was happening. "Um, I . . . I don't . . . .  _What_?"

He offered a tight-lipped grin as he nodded, apparently finding her confusion rather understandable, and started down the narrow stone staircase. "When Shacklebolt told us about your encounter at Diagon Alley, I assure you, many people were angered. It has only been Ms. Rowle's insistence that you are safe and well cared for—despite appearances to the contrary—that have kept your friends from trying to storm the Rowle estate and  _rescue_  you."

"You're the inside man for the Resistance, aren't you?"

"Mm," he said as he continued onward, watching his own footing upon the stair, rather than glancing back at her. "I see your keen perception finally kicks in."

She fixed a withering glare on the back of his silvery head. "You'll forgive me if what happened to me the last time I was your _guest_  stopped me from immediately imagining you as the one willing to betray your precious Dark Lord."

As his heel hit the landing, he spun to face her, an unpleasant expression twisting his features. " _My_  precious Dark . . . ." Instantly he caught himself, the venom draining from his gaze. "But of course,  _you_  don't know what happened, do you?"

Hermione's brow furrowed; happenings  _she_ didn't know about since the War's end could feel the Room of Forgotten Things. She shook her head, but then she realized that she'd not seen, nor even heard mention of Narcissa Malfoy tonight.

She supposed she assumed Narcissa had perished in the War without even realizing she'd given the matter thought.

"Does it have to do with why you're in this great big house all alone?" Of course, his goddaughter was here, but Isla was a new, and possibly temporary, addition to the Manor.

"I'd rather not discuss it. It is not something I'm at peace with, yet," he said with a shake of his head and a mirthless smile. "When you're of a mind, ask Mr. Rowle. He will be able to tell you."

He led her along the racks to a particular row of dusty bottles. "I am certain you have questions about other things."

Watching as he pulled down a bottle and began carefully wiping the layer of dust away with the edge of his sleeve, she decided what to ask first. "You spoke with Reina?"

He gave a nod as he pivoted to hand her the first bottle. He turned to retrieve a second and repeated the process.

"She's safe?"

"Miss Rowle is secured in one of our safe houses. It is best for all involved that  _that_  is all you know for the time being."

She frowned as he handed her the second bottle. "I would  _never_  endanger Reina."

He turned to face her, his eyes immediately capturing hers. "I am not suggesting you would willingly do so, Miss Granger. But, there _is_  the possibility that you would do so inadvertently. You might feel compelled to share the information with her brother to give him peace of mind, and that, alone, could compromise her safety, as the Dark Lord could pluck it right out of that poor young man's head."

Chestnut eyes narrowing at his choice of words, she said, "You feel sympathy for Thorfinn?"

Lucius shrugged and tipped his head side to side before reaching for one last bottle. When he'd discussed matters with Miss Rowle, she'd made it painfully clear that she did not want Miss Granger to know the full extent of the harm caused to her to punish her brother. He would not be the one to break her confidence.

"When one knows his circumstances,  _and_  can look past the gruff exterior, it's difficult not to."

She nodded, unaware that others knew the Rowle's circumstances. But, of course, that was silly, she realized, as these were likely people who'd known Thorfinn and Reina's parents and grandparents . . . and that crotchety uncle, too.

"We must return upstairs now, before our absence becomes suspicious. Are there any other questions you have? And please do be quick about them."

"Um, okay." Hermione shook her head, trying to think as Lucius dutifully retrieved the cuff of her leash from her fingers. "Draco. Was Rabastan telling the truth? He goes to that awful place?"

Biting back a small smile, he shook his head. "Yes, but it's not what it seems."

Her brows shot up. "He either goes there, or he doesn't."

"He does, but not for anything so filthy and unconscionable as most of its . . .  _clients_ , shall we call them."

Hermione had  _quite_  a different word in mind, but she kept her mouth shut.

"Those who visit regularly, if they have the means—be that power, money, or simply status—they may choose one of the prisoners as their favorite, and no one else is allowed to touch that girl without  _their_  permission."

Immediately she understood. The strange relief caused tears to spring into her eyes. "He's protecting someone," she said, her voice light and breathless.

Lucius nodded. "One Miss Luna Lovegood, I believe she's a rather close friend of yours?"

At the happy, surprised giggle that burst out of the witch, he couldn't help but laugh.

"So she's okay? I mean . . . . Draco's treating her well?"

"He is madly in love with that whimsy little thing, from what I can tell. He is treating her as well as he can in that horrible institution. And I . . . ."

Furrowing her brow, she echoed, "And you?"

"It seems I am going to be a grandfather."

Her face fell. Lucius Malfoy was only in his early forties—and, she'd never admit it aloud, but still rather strikingly handsome—picturing  _him_  as a grandfather seemed a bit of a stretch.

But there was a quiet joy in his expression that was undeniable.

"So something beautiful springs from something ugly, then?"

He shrugged, turning and starting back toward the stairs. "Such is life, Miss Granger. This is the last bit of Resistance information I can relay to you this evening. There is a plan, to get those girls away from that horrible place."

"Are you going to have a part in that? Won't that compromise your cover?"

Lucius nodded. "It would, that's why I'm being kept out, as is Draco. However, when the time comes, I will do  _everything_  in my power on the inside to impede any assistance Voldemort might send to protect that vile place  _without_  revealing myself. If I sit idly by, and the plan fails, I might never see my grandchild."

She nodded, deciding not to keep at that point—the conversation had already been more emotional than any discussion she ever imagined she might have with the Malfoy patriarch. "Reina said there were two people on the inside. Of course, if one is you the second would be Draco, I should've realized."

"It is quite a lot of information to digest, Miss Granger, even for you."

As they climbed the stairs, and she realized her time to ask questions had drawn to a close, though not without learning plenty for her mind to worry on later. Luna was going to be a mother—to Draco's child, of all people—Reina was  _indeed_ safe, and the Resistance was going to put an end to Umbridge Home.

She was so overwhelmed with relief, it was all she could do not to kiss the wizard who'd told her all this. Although, that would be weird, so she was more than glad she managed to keep her excitement tightly reigned.

She wanted, very much to be there the day they took that horrible place down—she wanted to ignite whole bloody thing and watch it burn to the ground with Dolores Umbridge locked inside. But for  _now_ , there was not much she could do.

"But Miss Rowle  _was_  correct, I see. Her brother is quite fond of you, even if he does well to not be obvious about it."

Hermione gave a start at the observation as they made their way up the staircase. "What?"

Pausing, he turned to look at her over his shoulder. "Please, Miss Granger."

She dropped her gaze, her cheeks burning. "I know my friends would probably not understand. I'm not even sure I do, but he's just  _not_  what I thought he'd be. He's—"

"Redeemable. Yes, we gathered that."

Hermione forced herself to meet his gaze. She could find nothing to say, however.

"Given the testimony of Miss Rowle, it seems he is not the only one, either. I've been investigating her claims, myself; quietly, of course." He gave her what she imagined was intended as a reassuring grin. "Your Mr. Rowle is one of a small handful of Death Eaters who might prove worth saving, Miss Granger."

She'd not realized how reluctant she'd actually been about her developing feelings for Thorfinn until that moment. Something in Lucius Malfoy's words made her wonder if it was because she could not reconcile those feelings with her wish to help her friends end the world he'd sort of helped create.

But then, she felt rather certain that had some of his followers foreseen the world under the Dark Lord's rule, they might've done more to stop him.

"When he first dragged you from the Wizengamot, there was great concern for what would become of you, but it seems that concern is unfounded. Your friends will be very glad to know that."

She nodded in understanding. "That's why you were there that day, to report back to them with my sentence."

He started up the steps, once more, but as he reached the door, she couldn't help one last thing that was bothering her.

"Just one last question—it doesn't have to do with the Resistance, though."

With a sigh, he turned on the top step to face her. "Yes?"

"Has Rabastan always been so insufferable?"

A chuckle rumbled out of him that quite surprised her. "Actually no. He was always a bit overbearing and presumptuous, but when Rodolphus disappeared, making  _him_  the heir to the Lestrange estate, he . . . started getting a bit out of hand. Rodolphus was an oddly gentle soul for such a mired family, and Rabastan never could stand that about him. I suppose once he assumed the role of heir, he adopted an attitude of showing the world how one in such an entitled position  _should_ behave."

"Are we so sure he didn't have something to do with  _gentle_  Rodolphus' disappearance?"

He shrugged. "There's whispers, of course, but Rabastan is much more bark than bite. I believe he's simply an opportunist."

With that last word, he opened the door. Stepping through, he made a show of tugging Hermione out behind him, for anyone who might be peeking out of the drawing room.

As they reentered, bottles in hand, Rabastan was regaling the room with some story Hermione couldn't make sense of. Whether that was because they'd entered mid-tale, or because he was slurring his speech, she didn't care to think on the cause long enough to figure it out.

Thorfinn had his head lolled back in an armchair, Isla appeared to be nodding off, and Antonin alternated between shaking his head and nodding as he pinched the bridge of his nose with two fingers.

" _Finally_ , you're back," the intoxicate storyteller called out, his tone unexpectedly boisterous. "You didn't do anything untoward to Thorfinn's lovely pet, now did you?"

Lucius barely refrained from rolling his eyes as he led Hermione to Thorfinn and handed back the cuff. "Of course not, Rabastan. I'm not you."

Rabastan grinned broadly, as though that was a compliment. He watched Lucius collect the extra bottles from Hermione and start across the room to set them down. "You really are no fun these days."

"I can't imagine why that might be," their host said with a mirthless little smile, opening the first of the new bottles to pour them all a fresh round. All except Hermione—she'd had yet to even start her first, he noticed. Her untouched glass stood alone on the tray.

He brought it to her as he made the rounds of the room, refilling his guest's drinks.

As she accepted it and turned to look for a place to sit, her options limited by her leash, she noticed Thorfinn took up the entire seat of the wide armchair. So much for thinking she could squeeze in beside him.

Catching her gaze, he nodded toward his knee.

Hermione could feel a blush threatening, but she quelled it as best she could. She  _was_  his little plaything, as far as Voldemort's followers were concerned. Sitting on his knee would not be something that would seem odd, too forward, or out of place to them.

Gathering the length of her dress carefully in her free hand, she obediently perched on his leg. This was just as well, she told herself, as any seat they might move to that would accommodate them, both, would put her closer to Rabastan.

Rabastan, who'd been prattling on about something or another, the entire time. Hermione found it hard to tell, as his voice became an incoherent droning when Thorfinn's eyes had caught hers for that moment.

She was, of course, doing everything in her power to ignore the warmth of Thorfinn's hand as it settled on the small of her back.

"Before I forget," Rabastan said, pushing up to stand and nearly stumbling. "I am having a dinner party next weekend, and I expect you _all_  to attend."

"Who else will be at this dinner party?" Lucius asked, one brow arched as he idly sipped his drink.

"Well, you lot, the Carrows . . . ." He winced as he looked at Thorfinn. "MacNair."

Thorfinn's entire frame tensed so hard, Hermione thought for certain he might've jumped up from his seat at the mention, if it wouldn't mean dropping her to the floor. Swallowing hard, she turned in his lap to look up at him. His teeth were clenched so tight, she thought he might chip one of them.

"I know, I  _know_ ," Rabastan said, his voice startlingly clear as he raised his free hand in a placating manner. He was obviously putting a lot of effort into his words. "But you have to try to put what happened behind you. He  _was_  under orders."

Shaking his head, Antonin appeared to duck closer to Isla for a moment. Such a quick movement, Hermione thought if she blinked, she might miss it.

"I think I've had a bit too much this evening, Lucius; I'm not feeling very well. Would it be all right if Mr. Dolohov sees me up to my room?"

"I would be happy to escort you," Rabastan offered, feigning a wounded expression.

Isla nodded, forcing a smile. "That  _is_  most kind of you, but I'm afraid you'd never make it up the stairs in your state. Mr. Dolohov, would you mind, terribly?"

Standing and brushing some wrinkles from his robes, Antonin offered her his elbow. "Of course not, Miss Black."

"It was lovely meeting all of you." She cut her dark-eyed gaze to Hermione and Thorfinn as she accepted, very visibly excluding Rabastan from her statement as she said, "I hope we can do this again, some evening."

Rabastan, too drunk to notice the slight, caught her free hand as she passed him. He lavished a kiss on the back that made Hermione shudder as it reminded her of the one he'd placed on her earlier that evening. " _Very_  lovely to have met you, my sweet Miss Black."

Tugging her hand from his grasp with a swift, delicate motion, she grinned at him, but the expression did not reach her eyes. "Good evening, Mr. Lestrange," she said in a curt tone as she swept from the room on Antonin's arm.

The gathering fell quiet for a moment, before Thorfinn turned his still wrathful gaze on Rabastan. "Why the  _bloody_  hell would you think I would accept an invitation to dine with that man?"

"We  _still_  have to work with him, no matter how stomach-turning his presence." Rabastan shook his head, oddly sensible as he finished off yet another drink. "This will be the opportunity for you to show him that his presence does not bother you."

Rolling his eyes, Lucius let his head fall back for a moment. "Unfortunately, Mr. Rowle, he is correct. If you do not attend, and MacNair has any reason to believe it is to avoid him, he will not hesitate to use that against you."

Thorfinn turned his attention to Lucius for a few moments before speaking. "You're right. Fine. I can't say I'd be delighted to attend, but I'll be there."

" _And_  your lovely pet, of course."

Hermione shifted across Thorfinn's lap just a bit, pressing one hand to his chest. Whatever his problem with MacNair was, it made him tense once again at the thought of bringing her with him, that much was obvious.

But he needed to focus, to keep his presence of mind. Whatever the reason, she knew he couldn't let on that he didn't want her around MacNair.

Tipping her head to bring her mouth close to his ear, she said in a whisper, "I mean nothing to you, remember?"

He gave a nod so slight she nearly missed it. "Of course I'll bring her."

"That  _is_  splendid," Rabastan said with a broad grin that made Hermione's insides twist unpleasantly.

"I think we should, perhaps, be going, as well." Thorfinn lifted Hermione and set her on her feet before standing, himself.

"I suppose it is getting late, and here I brought up so many. Here," Lucius said, crossing the room to place an unopened bottle in Thorfinn's hand. "Take one, with my compliments. Rabastan, you're welcome to stay and finish the one we just opened."

Nodding, Rabastan made his way to where Lucius left the bottle in question. Their host made perfect use of the distraction, ushering the witch and wizard from the room.

"Well, this evening could have gone better," he said with a tired sigh as he retrieved their cloaks.

"It also could've gone worse." Thorfinn helped Hermione with her cloak before accepting his own. He leaned toward the silver-haired man, his voice lowered. "Next time, leave Rabastan out of your invitations, I think."

"That's assuming, of course, that he doesn't simply up and invite himself."

The two wizards parted ways strangely amicably. Hermione thanked Lucius for the invitation, and the ridiculously expensive and perfectly aged wine.

As she accompanied Thorfinn out the door and through side-along Apparation back home, she was quiet. He was still tense, and she had no idea how to help. Possibly because she had no idea precisely what had set him off about MacNair.

* * *

Back inside the Rowle house, their cloaks off and hung up, she turned to face him. "Will you tell me why you hate MacNair so much?"

He held her gaze, unblinking. "No." He wanted to, he really wanted to tell her the truth about what had happened, but now it wasn't only Reina's wish to keep her in the dark about that weighing on him. If she knew what that vile man had done—what he was capable of—she'd never make it through sitting across a dinner table from him.

At the way her brows drew together, his shoulders slumped. "At least not now, but I  _will_."

Nodding, she decided to go for something he might answer. "What happened to Narcissa Malfoy? Why is Lucius in that big house, all alone?"

"Is  _that_ what you two took so long in the wine cellar?"

Hermione ignored what sounded like a tinge of jealousy in his voice. "I was asking him about Draco and Umbridge Home. I was very disturbed to think someone I knew could make use of a place like  _that_."

Thorfinn dropped his head a moment, an abashed look flickering across his face. Of course the explanation was both perfectly innocent and had to do with the bizarre, inherent trust she seemed to have that  _most_  people had good in them, somewhere.

"Anyway, I asked what happened to Narcissa. He said he couldn't speak on it, because he'd not made peace with it, but told me to ask you."

His eyes squeezing closed, he tried hard to ignore the sudden memory of that poor witch's screams. "That's a discussion that will require opening this," he said, lifting the bottle Lucius had given him by its neck.

Hermione didn't quite like the sound of that, but she nodded. Turning on a heel, she followed him into the sitting room. When they were both seated, too-full glasses in each of their hands, he started.

"Shortly after Potter fell . . . ." He paused, taking a long swig of his drink. "The Dark Lord claimed Hogwarts as his base of operations. He had Molly Weasley brought before him, I don't know what he did, precisely, but he ended her life for ending Bellatrix's." Another swig. "Then, he called for the Malfoys. All three of them."

A nervous little ball formed in the pit of Hermione's stomach. With a deep breath, she gulped down a generous helping of her own drink.

"In the Forbidden Forest, he'd asked Narcissa to confirm that Potter was dead, which she did. Of course, once Potter jumped up and started fighting again, it wasn't difficult for the Dark Lord to deduce that she'd lied to him." He dropped his gaze to the floor, sucking his teeth. "He forced Lucius and Draco to alternate torturing her."

Hermione clamped a hand over her mouth as Thorfinn finished off his drink and poured himself another.

"She went mad, of course, but he didn't let them stop." He nodded, his expression distant as he sipped. "He didn't let them stop until they killed her."

She set down her drink, covering her face with her hands. Once upon a time, she  _never_ would've believed she could shed tears for the Malfoys,  _now,_ here she was with all she could do to stop them.

"And then, to add insult to incredibly grievous injury, he took the Malfoy's house elves for himself, and consigned Draco to reside in Hogwarts. He's serving as potion's apprentice to Professor Slughorn. The Dark Mark was even burned from Lucius' arm, relegating him to the lowest ranks of the Dark Lord's inner circle."

"I  _don't_ understand," she said, choking out the words, her voice thick with tears. "Why do you stay in service to someone capable of such  _horrible_  things?"

"Because I have  _no_  choice. None of us do." He licked his lips, shaking his head as he lifted his glass for another sip. "There was a time when I couldn't have imagined wanting to walk away from the Dark Lord's service, but . . . but now . . . ."

She lowered her hands, curling her fingers under her chin. "But now?" she asked as he met her watery gaze.

"But now, I imagine differently."

That must be terrifying for him, she realized, a fist closing around her heart. Any doubt he held, any thought of disobedience, Voldemort could pluck from his head, if he had the  _slightest_  reason to suspect.

She'd had enough fear and confusion for one night.

Setting down her glass, she stood. "I think I'm actually quite tired, now. It's been a long night."

He nodded, clasping his large hands around his drink. "I understand."

"Good night, Thorfinn."

"Good night, Princess."

Yet, upon retiring to her room, Hermione found—after hours of tossing and turning—that she couldn't sleep.

* * *

Thorfinn was pulled from sleep by his locator charm. Rubbing his eyes, he sat up, focusing on its beacon. Hermione was still close . . . . Not in the house, but still on the grounds.

And stationary.

Frowning, he stood from his bed and crossed the room. He peered out the window, down into the garden.

There she was, wrapped in her cloak and sitting on the cold ground as she stared up at the sky.

Shaking his head, he dressed quickly and headed downstairs to grab his cloak.

* * *

"What are we doing out here, Princess?"

Hermione gave a start. She'd been so lost in her thoughts, she'd not even heard him approach.

Tipping her head back to meet his gaze as he looked down at her, she frowned thoughtfully. "We are stargazing."

With a nod, Thorfinn hunkered down behind her. Wrapping his arms around her, he pulled her backward, into his lap. "What you are is freezing."

"Fine," she said allowing herself to snuggle against him as she returned her attention to the starry winter sky overhead. "Freezing and stargazing."

A sigh rumbled out of him—she could feel it through his chest against her back—and he tilted his head to look at the stars, as well.

Hermione wasn't certain how long they sat there in silence. She was markedly warmer, though, by the time she chose to disturb the peaceful moment.

"Thorfinn?"

"Yeah?"

Swallowing hard, she only just managed to keep the sudden wash of tears from spilling down her cheeks—imaginings of what had happened to Narcissa Malfoy, of what Reina's incarceration must've been like, spun through her head. Shadowy, terrifying notions of what might happen to her if Voldemort ever learned he  _could_ use her to punish Thorfinn teased from the corners of her mind.

"I'm scared," she finally said, her voice low and hollow.

His arms tightened around her, holding her closer, still, as he nodded. "Me, too, Princess."


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter Twelve**

Hermione blinked her eyes open, secure and warm in a way that was becoming increasingly familiar as of late. Hiding a smirk, she said, "Thorfinn?"

"Yes, Princess?"

"Are we in your bed, again?"

"Yes."

"Why are  _we_  in your bed, again?"

"Because you were cold, again."

Biting her lip, she nodded, her head pillowed on his arm as he held her from behind. "End of winter's only a few weeks away. What excuse are you going to use, then?"

She could feel him shrug against her as he spoke, his voice faintly muffled by her hair, "Sort of hoping by then I won't need an excuse."

Closing her eyes, she only snuggled backward into him. "I'm too sleepy to reprimand you for your forwardness, just now, you lumbering Viking."

"Huh," he said, lifting one arm from around her to stroke his beard thoughtfully. "A Viking, am I? I think I rather like being called that."

Groaning, she slipped from his arms and out of the bed.

Thorfinn Rowle actually  _pouted_ as he watched her cross the room. "Where are you going?"

Glancing back over her shoulder, she couldn't help but giggle at his petulant expression. "Well, since there's a lumbering Viking in the bed who won't let me get back to sleep, I suppose I'm going to go make us some coffee and breakfast, aren't I?"

She didn't give him time to answer as she stepped through the door. Because she  _couldn't_. A man of his build should not be allowed to pout. It should be absolutely against the law!

Though, she knew she probably felt that way because she was  _intensely_  aware that if he'd so much as crooked a finger to beckon her back to him while he'd been pouting, she never would have made it out of the room.

* * *

Over the following week leading up to the miserable dinner party that she really,  _really_ , didn't want to attend, Thorfinn was summoned by Voldemort several times. On Thursday, it had actually happened twice.

By the time he arrived home, he was so exhausted—she refused to ask what it was he'd been made to do that had drained him so—she was surprised he hadn't fallen asleep on the staircase.

Friday during dinner—the first one he'd been home for the entire week—he finally asked about the one thing she'd sort of been hoping he hadn't noticed.

"So," he said, his gaze on his plate as he lifted a forkful of potatoes, "has Uncle asked about his missing wand, yet?"

Wincing, Hermione looked up at him. If not for the slip of a smirk playing on his lips, she would think she was actually in trouble.

"No. I . . . ." She shrugged, fidgeting with her fork. "He hasn't noticed, but after Reina was taken, I just felt so powerless. And I couldn't . . . ."

At the tremor in her voice, he lifted his gaze to look at her. Her chestnut eyes glimmered and her lower lip trembled as she toyed with her food.

Rising from his seat, Thorfinn rounded the table. He lowered himself beside her chair on one knee.

She shifted in her seat to face him. "I haven't felt that helpless since before the day I first learned I was a witch," she said in a broken whisper. "I'm sorry I stole it. No, no, actually, I'm not. I'm  _not_  sorry I took it. I'm sorry I didn't mention it to you, myself. I just couldn't take sitting there, knowing that he'd been able to snatch her away like that because  _I_ was powerless to stop him."

Bracing an elbow on his knee, he raked his fingers though his hair. All the more reason to never tell her what really happened.  _Fuck_. When the truth finally came out—because truth  _always_  found a way—she was going to hex him into next week, he could see it, already.

And he could hardly blame her if she did.

"It wasn't your fault, and it wasn't your job to protect her. Wand or no wand, he'd have found a way to take her."

"I could've done something  _more,"_ she said, her whispered voice shivering as a tear broke fear to roll down her cheek.

With a pained groan, he slipped his arms around her and pulled her into the comfort of a hug. She said something that was muffled against his shoulder, and he withdrew just enough to look at her. "What?"

"I said it's  _my_  fault you might never see her again." It didn't matter that she was safely hidden away with the Resistance somewhere—well, yes, it did, Reina's safety mattered more than anything in the world, but not in  _this_ way. What mattered was that Reina was lost to them until Voldemort was stopped.

Frowning, he shook his head at her. He lifted a hand, wiping her tears with gentle fingertips. "No.  _You_ didn't order MacNair to come take her. You just couldn't stop him."

" _Exactly_."

"No, Princess, no." Again he shook his head. "Being powerless to stop a situation is  _not_  the same as having the power to do something, but sitting idly by. You would have stopped him, if you could have."

She didn't want his words to make sense. How odd that she should want to take the weight of responsibility in this, but there it was. Maybe . . . maybe if someone else were responsible, he'd stop beating himself up for it.

Her brow furrowed as her eyes held his. Was that really it? Was she simply trying to stop him from blaming himself?

"Have you always been like this?"

"Like what?" she asked, confused by the randomness of the question.

A half-grin curved his lips. "Ready to shoulder the burdens of everyone you come across?"

She uttered a surprised laugh; Hermione supposed that  _did_  describe her. "Pretty much."

That cheery expression faded as he dropped his voice low, asking in a near-whisper, "Even those who don't deserve such kindness?"

Her shoulders drooped, gaze raking over his somber features. "You're a better man than you were. That counts for something, doesn't it?"

Thorfinn blinked a few times before he could find words to answer her. "If  _you_  think so, then it just might."

She was acutely aware of the press of his fingertips against her jaw. There was nothing in that moment beyond the warmth of his skin, or the nearness of him as he leaned close.

Until he winced, a hissing breath sliding from between clenched teeth as he withdrew from her to grab at his left forearm.

Hermione made that unpleasant grimace and grated out an unattractive noise from the back of her throat. " _Damn_  him!"

Thorfinn stood, pointing to his arm. "The fates are against us."

She snatched one of his hands between both of hers and raised it to her lips. "Lucky for you, then, that I've never put much stock in fate." Turning his hand palm-up, she pressed a long, wet kiss to the center, taking her time in stroking over the lines with the tip of her tongue.

He let out a shuddering breath as he shook the forefinger of his free hand at her. "You are  _wicked_ , you know that?"

Dropping his hand, she shrugged and offered a mischievous grin. "I have been called worse."

Biting his lip, he moved toward her, only to be deterred by an increased burning in his forearm. He looked as though he was about to say something, but instead turned on his heel and stomped away.

Hermione couldn't help but laugh as he disappeared out the door. She could hear his storming, flustered footfalls through the house.

Perhaps she shouldn't have done that, she realized, as she'd just tossed out the biggest of all mixed signals if she slipped back to her previous avoidance tactics. Oh, but who was she kidding? It wasn't as though she didn't want him.

As she cleaned up their dinner plates, she decided that if he chose to come to her room after he returned from his summons to see if there was more where that kiss to his hand had come from, she'd show him. Happily. Several times, in fact.

But he didn't return until nearly sunrise. He was so worn out, that when Hermione awoke the next morning, it was to find a lumbering Viking wizard half-draped across one side of her bed.

She buried her face in her hands, just barely holding in a frustrated shriek. Simply another thing to add to the list of the many,  _many_  reasons she hated Voldemort.

* * *

He woke so late in the afternoon, that Hermione had just enough time to get some coffee in him—a late breakfast seemed pointless, as they were going to a dinner party—and convince him to wash up before they had to get dressed and leave for Rabastan's.

She was strangely pleased that he wasn't at all surprised to wake up in her bed. Clearly entering her room had been an intentional act, despite how tired he'd been.

As he came down the stairs to where she was waiting, he noticed the leash dangling from her hands. Scowling, he shook his head.

"Isla was invited, too, remember?" she asked as she held it out to him. "I  _have_ to be leashed if anyone outside of You Know Who's followers are present."

"I  _am_  aware; doesn't make it any less appalling," he said, taking the damned thing from her hands and securing the ruby-studded collar around her neck.

Hermione gave a little jump as he tugged the pins from her carefully-ordered hair without warning. Brow furrowing, she stared up at him as the wild locks tumbled down around her shoulders, in mildly organized chaos. "Why'd you do that?"

"I prefer your hair down and messy, Princess."

That was something she was not expecting to hear. She didn't think anyone liked  _her_  hair down. "Really?"

"Of course." He turned her by her shoulders to drape her cloak over her, ducking his head to murmur in her ear, "Gives you that  _just been shagged_  look."

She feigned a scandalized gasp, but before she could respond, he was tugging her out the door and in side-along Apparation to the Lestrange estate.

* * *

Lestrange Manor was quite the intimidating edifice to behold. Dark and sprawling, it reminded her, in a way, of the Malfoy property. It certainly felt like a place Rabastan would call home.

Their host was already lingering in the open doorway, awaiting them. As expected, his gaze fell to his gift circling her throat while the pair climbed the steps and approached the double doors.

Blocked from Rabastan's view by the way they walked, she reached a hand back, touching Thorfinn's side in a delicate gesture of reassurance. She could feel how tense he already was—and knew it likely had more to do with than simply their host's dark gaze moving over her like that.

"Please, please, come in. We're only waiting on Lucius and Miss Black, now."

Hermione graciously accepted the kiss he placed on the back of her hand—not the slobbering mess from last time. It made her wonder if he'd perhaps already been a bit tipsy before he'd even come to the Rowle home to fetch them that evening.

He led them through the foyer and across the first floor of his vast home, summoning a feisty, aged female elf to take their cloaks. She had to remind herself not to say thank you—elves serving  _old_  pure-blood families did not take kindly to such niceties.

Into the dining room they went, four people already seated around the table. Antonin was the first to rise from his seat in greeting. There was another dark-haired man, bearing a striking similarity to the lone woman at the table—the Carrows. Amycus had an unsettling, almost vacant look to his expression, but Alecto . . . . The slender woman with the intense gaze could be pretty, if there wasn't a deep sense that there was something  _off_  about her.

And finally the wizard Hermione remembered from that horrible night, two and a half weeks ago. Sense-memory sent a flare of unpleasant tingles along the skin of her cheek, where he'd struck her.

She was also acutely aware of Thorfinn behind her, trying to keep his simmering temper in check.

"Hermione, dear, this is Alecto Carrow, and her brother Amycus. You, of course, already know Antonin, and Walden MacNair."

MacNair nodded to Thorfinn and lifted a glass to her, his gaze touching upon where his hand had connected with her face. "No hard feelings, my dear?"

Hermione had many,  _many_ things she wanted to say to Walden MacNair . . . but every single one would put Thorfinn in the terrible spot of having to reprimand her for the sake of their little audience. Instead, she fell into her role of perfect little pet, dropping her gaze to the floor and backpedaling a step into Thorfinn's protective frame.

"Of course not," Thorfinn managed to answer for her, his voice calm, somehow. "You were simply following orders."

She thought she could feel both Antonin and Rabastan breathe a collective sigh of relief at the younger wizard's tranquil veneer. As she and Thorfinn settled in their chairs, Amycus, Antonin and MacNair resumed their seats, as well. Alecto eyed the other witch the entire time.

As MacNair and the Carrows dropped back into whatever conversation they were having before Hermione and Thorfinn arrived, Rabastan came around the table to the two new guests. He drew Hermione's attention to the bottle of wine in his hands with a nod and a lift of his brows.

The topic of conversation being the effects of particular obscure poisons and their effectiveness in torture, Hermione winced, nodding, herself. "Please," she said in a pleading whisper.

With a chuckle under his breath, and a shockingly understanding expression, he poured her a generous helping.

Thorfinn accepted, as well. He was going to need the warm, soothing pooling of the alcohol in his gut to keep from reaching across the table and strangling MacNair with his bare hands.

While she tried desperately to ignore the conversation, every now and again, Thorfinn caught the corner of her eye and offered some goofy expression, or another. She hid her smile behind her wine glass—if she let on about the private exchange to the rest of the table, all it would do was highlight how much younger they were than the others gathered. She felt that perhaps reminding them Thorfinn had a certain level of maturity he maintained around them that might not be his natural state of being would only be damaging to him.

Midway through her second, overly-filled glass, there was a chime. Rabastan stood from his seat and excused himself.

Bored, and feeling the beginnings of tipsiness edge her senses, Hermione followed the movement with her gaze. As she skirted her attention back to the table, she noticed Alecto's cold eyes still pinned her.

Had the other witch been watching her the _entire_  time, or had Hermione simply caught her in a moment of passing glances?

Deciding to ignore it—the jet-haired woman had a look that could stop a troll at twenty paces, Hermione was certain—she let her gaze drift around the table. Amycus and MacNair had moved onto discussing which organs were the most painful to injure while keeping the victim alive, Antonin nodded along at certain points, and Thorfinn was pretending to listen to the conversation.

As her attention crossed Antonin, he looked over, catching her eyes. He offered her a quick, encouraging grin.

Nodding, Hermione returned the smile before dropping her gaze back to her drink. Though, not before she noticed the momentary flash of rage in Alecto's unsettling eyes.

With a big gulp of her wine, Hermione leaned closer to Thorfinn in her seat. "I think Alecto means to kill me," she said in a whisper, her voice blocked from the rest of the ears at the table by the morbid, yet oddly educational, conversation taking place.

Thorfinn bit his lip to hold in a grin. "Don't take it personally. She has fancies herself in love with Antonin, so any witch he looks at earns her ire."

"Oh."

Rabastan returned to the dining room just then, Lucius at his heels. Their host did not look terribly pleased.

As the silver-haired wizard found his way to the empty seat on the other side of Hermione, he offered the table an apologetic smile. "My goddaughter has asked me to tell you all how sorry she is. She was not feeling very well this evening, and thought it best she decline the invitation."

Aware she would be considered to be speaking out of turn by their audience, Hermione nudged Thorfinn lightly in his side.

"How unfortunate. Let her know she's missed," he said, settling hand over Hermione's thigh under the table.

Hermione folded her lips inward and dropped her gaze to her the empty plate before her, her features carefully schooled. Even though she wasn't looking at him, she could tell Thorfinn was having entirely too much fun with her response.

"Of course. Rabastan already expressed the same sentiment," Lucius said, earning him a nod and a smile from their host as his glass was filled.

"Yes, I'm certain he did." Antonin muttered with a lift of his brows.

Hermione winced as she tried to hold in a laugh at Antonin's mildly exasperated tone. Oddly, she was certain the wizards on either side of her were experiencing the same issue.

"Well, since Isla is not present, I think we can untether Miss Granger, don't you Mr. Rowle?"

Thorfinn nodded, turning Hermione toward him. Yet, as he lifted his hands to unclasp it, the sound of someone clearing their throat cut across the room.

The young couple turned their attention to the source of the noise. Alecto was shaking her head, a soured expression pinching her features.

"Yes, Alecto?" Thorfinn asked, holding in a sigh as his broad shoulders drooped.

"I think you should keep her leashed. I don't know that _I_  feel safe with an Undesirable left to her own devices in my presence."

Thorfinn and Lucius both opened their mouths to speak, but Antonin beat them to it. "Funny,  _your_  presence makes others feel unsafe, yet you're not tethered."

A ripple of sympathy went through Hermione as she noted the quick look of hurt in the other woman's expression. For all of about five seconds, before said other woman fixed a venomous glare on her.

Of course. Alecto's imagined beloved had just spoken in defense of another witch. Pretending she didn't notice, Hermione simply turned her attention back to Thorfinn as he finally slipped the collar from her throat and dropped it upon the table between their place settings.

As Rabastan summoned his house elves to begin serving the first course of the meal, Hermione managed to offer Lucius a whispered thank you. He answered with a barely-perceptible nod and then gave himself over to joining the conversation. This time, about experiments the Department of Mysteries was conducting that sound like something straight from Mary Shelley's darkest nightmares.

Hermione made it through the courses by considering the taste of each morsel that hit her tongue, counting how many times she chewed, carefully washing down each forkful with a sip of wine. All the calculations and thoughts that went into each and every bite became exactly the engrossing task she needed to eat,  _and_  keep her food in her stomach—exactly where it belonged—as what various states of decomposition did to the different sections of one's innards was discussed as one might chat about Quidditch.

Rabastan was surprisingly bubbly and charming throughout the meal, but then Hermione realized that in his role as host, he'd not touched a drop of the fine vintage he was serving his guests. Just as the last course was being served, she found herself pinned by his gaze.

He chuckled as she gave a start under his sudden scrutiny. "I see you've settled into your role as pet, Hermione. Tell me, Thorfinn, did she have a difficult time coming to this acceptance?"

She realized that he'd noticed the way she deferred to Thorfinn throughout the evening. That was perfect, as that had been precisely what the image they were trying to project. But she still felt a dissatisfied rumble through her as a desire to respond to his observation bubbled.

Tipping her head toward Thorfinn, she asked in a whisper that was deliberately loud, so that their audience could hear her clearly, "May  _I_ address Mr. Lestrange?"

Thorfinn didn't even bother to hide an amused grin. He nodded before kicking back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest as he waited for her response.

Carefully wiping the corners of her mouth with her linen napkin, she set it beside her plate and then turned her attention directly on Rabastan. "This is not a matter of acceptance, Mr. Lestrange. I am well aware of my circumstances,  _and_  the terms of my continued survival. With such awareness comes the understanding that no amount of belly-aching or fuss on my part is going to do anything to better my situation. Do not mistake a means of surviving an unpleasant turn of events as acceptance, Sir."

Alecto's shock at the other witch's calm but succinct reply was obvious in her face—clearly she'd underestimated the much-talked about intellect and cool-headed logic of  _Potter's Mudblood_ —and the wizards around the table all broke out in laughter. Their comrade being so effortlessly schooled by the young woman clearly amused them all a great deal.

Again, Hermione felt the warmth of Thorfinn's hand as it settled over her thigh beneath the table. This time, she only sat little straighter and placed her hand atop his.

Rabastan looked sullen for a heartbeat before he replaced the somber expression with a grin. "You still  _are_  feisty, I see. Good to know. I was worried our young Thorfinn might grow weary."

"Somehow, I doubt you'll let that be possible," Thorfinn said in a whispered tumble of words for Hermione's ears, only.

After the meal, their host led them into the drawing room. Hermione was already thanking the powers that be that there'd been enough food to balance out the amount of wine she'd imbibed, but now that they were to follow their delicious dinner with a few rounds of Fire Whiskey, she wasn't certain how much longer she could tread the line between tipsy and drunk.

As with the night at Malfoy Manor, Hermione settled on Thorfinn's knee as she sipped her drink. This time, she felt far less abashed by it. The apparent claim over the younger witch that such a seating arrangement posed  _also_ seemed to placate Alecto.

Her features softened a little, and some of the venom drained from her gaze. Hermione made a note of how much prettier the dark-haired woman could be when she wasn't letting bitterness twist her face.

But Antonin's continued—and well-played—intentional ignorance of Alecto did not allow her wrath to leave her completely.

This one was a  _special_ brand of loopy, Hermione thought as she nursed her drink in careful, measured sips.

Finally, as it seemed the evening was winding down, Rabastan poured himself a glass. He lifted it in what seemed a toast, but instead announced, "I am planning a party in celebration of our Lord's victory.  _He,_  of course, may be in attendance. May 2nd, the night our Dark Lord came to power, and you are all invited, of course."

A sour taste bloomed in the back of Hermone's throat and she found it difficult to breathe a moment. Her nose stung and a sudden wash of tears crowded the corners of her eyes.

Setting down her drink, she excused herself to find the bathroom.

Once inside, she locked the door, splashing her face with cold water as she reminded herself to breathe. May 2nd . . . the day she'd lost her best friend and the world as she'd known it has come to an end. And they were going to  _celebrate_  it.

Switching off the faucet, she sat down on the lid of the toilet. Hermione balanced her elbows on her knees and buried her face in her hands.

For several minutes, she alternated between shrieks of anguish behind closed lips and sobbed breaths. This was  _never_  going to be over for her, was it? No, of course it wasn't. Not until Voldemort and all of his  _un_ redeemable followers were dead and gone.

Finally, she managed to calm herself enough to return to the gathering. Washing her face in cool water a second time, she carefully patted her skin dry, checking in the mirror that there were no signs she'd just quietly thrown a fit.

As she opened the door and stepped out, she nearly collided with someone. She jumped back a step, a gasp tearing from her throat as she looked up.

"Oh," the wizard said, a strange and unsettling grin twisting his lips. "Sorry, my dear. Did I frighten you?"


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter Thirteen**

As Rabastan rounded the room to refill everyone's glasses for what was unanimously decided would be the last serving of the night, he glanced about as he reached Thorfinn. When he'd first seen the younger wizard was alone, he assumed Hermione had slipped away to use the bathroom.

But she had still not returned.

It seemed Thorfinn was wondering the same thing, starting to look around just as Rabastan asked, "Where's your pet, Thorfinn?"

Blue eyes narrowed lethally as Thorfinn noticed she was not the only one missing. "Where's  _MacNair_?"

To his credit, concern shown in Rabastan's expression as he set down the bottle. Thorfinn rose from his seat, moving to follow their host from the room. Before he exited, he turned back, trying to catch Dolohov's attention.

The dark-haired wizard glanced up from a conversation he was holding with Lucius and Amycus. Alecto was listening and attempting to contribute, and Lucius seemed to be doing his part to engage her so that Antonin's brush-offs were not obvious enough to spark any sort of fit from the displeased witch.

Thorfinn signaled him to keep them occupied—a look long understood between them, given how often the Dark Lord had paired them together for missions.

His gaze darting about the room, Antonin noticed the missing parties. Dark eyes widening just a little in concern, he nodded and dove back into the conversation, veering it into a new, more engrossing subject.

Thorfinn turned, bolting after Rabastan.

* * *

"M . . . . Mr. MacNair," Hermione said, hating how unsteady her voice was as it tumbled from her lips. "No, no. I just thought everyone was still in the drawing room."

The grin that twisted his face could only be described as  _leering_. "Your owner did not allow you to answer, yourself." His gaze, again, touched on her cheek. "Are you upset over our altercation?"

"Altercation?" Her brows shot up as she stared back at him. That was  _not_  an altercation—that was an armed person striking a smaller,  _un_ armed person! It was assault . . . but anything she said or did out of line would be something Thorfinn would have to answer for.

"I'm fine, thank you." With a nod, she dropped her gaze to her feet and started toward the staircase.

Yet, with a smooth side-step, he blocked her path.

Hermione bit the inside of her bottom lip to hold in a disgruntled groan. Ice churned in the pit of her stomach at his closeness.

 _God_ , she wished she had her pilfered wand, right now. Yet, she and Thorfinn had both known perfectly well that she could not bring it with her—she was not legally permitted possession of a wand. If the evening took any unfortunate turns and she was discovered with one, their charade would be over,  _and_ she'd be used to punish Thorfinn as payment for the transgression.

"I understand from your former classmate, Draco, that you are quite the book lover." He tipped his head to one side as he watched her, weighing her reaction to him, she thought. "Lestrange Manor has a most extensive library. I was just headed there, if you'd care to join me?"

She felt her breath catch in her throat, the weight of the very air pressing against her skin as she scrambled to decline his invitation. "Um, you know, I—I really think I should return downstairs. Thorfinn might be upset with me for being gone so long."

Moving around him, finally, she managed two steps before his hand clamped over her wrist, forcing her to halt. At his touch, those unpleasant tingles ran along the skin of her cheek, just as when she'd first seen him earlier that evening.

"But I must _insist_ ," he said, his lowered voice sickly sweet as he pulled on her arm. "I don't believe your owner would mind your absence a few more minutes."

She was putting effort into standing her ground, but he was stronger. Another, more insistent, tug had her stumbling back toward him, but a second hand closed around one of her shoulders, steadying her.

"Now, now, Walden. Playing with someone else's toy without permission is rude."

Hermione was incredibly comforted—as utterly mad as that notion was—to see Rabastan before her on the top step of the staircase. She had been _so_ distracted with MacNair's abominable presence that she'd not noticed him sooner.

The still-mostly-sober Rabastan withdrew his hand as he moved up onto the landing. _MacNair's_  hand, however, rather conspicuously retained possession of the anxious young woman's wrist.

"Rabastan, this is hardly  _your_  concern."

Hermine heard heavy footfalls, then. Distinct to her ears, as she'd grown accustomed to this particular gait storming through the estate house she now thought of as _home_. She was so relieved by the familiar sound, it was a wonder her legs didn't give out from under her.

"But it is mine," Thorfinn said as he started up the stairs.

MacNair did not relinquish his hold fast enough. The younger wizard spotted the inappropriate and unwelcome grip on his witch—and Thorfinn's responding anger shone in his eyes for a moment before he got his emotions in check.

He reached the top of the steps, his head high and his broad shoulders squared, accentuating his greater height and mass over MacNair. "Unhand  _my_ property."

She was too grateful for an end to this madness to mind the misogynistic wording—all part of the act, of course, but under different circumstances, she'd be irate, regardless.

Relinquishing his hold, at last, MacNair held up his hands in a placating gesture, despite that he made no attempt to hide his soured expression. If anything, Hermione thought—as she glanced back at the repugnant older wizard over her shoulder—that he was secretly relishing Thorfinn's obvious displeasure over the scene he'd come upon.

"I meant no offense, Thorfinn. I only thought she'd enjoy—"

"We  _all_  know what you were thinking, Walden," Rabastan said, his head shaking.

Thorfinn's hand closed around Hermione's as he directed his attention to their host. "I think we'll be leaving now."

Rabastan made an  _after you_  gesture toward the main floor. "Of course."

Walden MacNair watched the witch and wizard descend the staircase, his gaze lingering on things it shouldn't. "Interesting how possessive he is."

Rabastan shook his head, once more, as he started down after Hermione and Thorfinn. Well aware of his own reputation as a bit of a womanizer, even  _he_ found Walden MacNair's tactics in regard to the fairer sex appalling—and  _that_  was saying something. "Wouldn't  _you_  be around someone like yourself?"

The small sound of commiseration MacNair uttered as he followed told Rabastan that he understood, rather well. Though, the Lestrange heir doubted this moment of realization would deter any further unsavory nonsense from MacNair, but at least he could say he tried.

* * *

Thorfinn was silent as he slipped Hermione's cloak around her shoulders. Silent as he pulled her out the door and Apparated them back to the Rowle estate. As he hurried her along into the house and slammed the door behind them.

Hermione was a little afraid to look at him as she pulled off her cloak, but could not step away to hang it. She could feel the agitation rippling off of him. He was probably angry with her for letting MacNair get that close, for putting him in a position where their charade had nearly been exposed.

Neither of those things were actually her fault, which she well knew. Yet, as she thought to turn and remind him of that, the words stuck in her throat.

Drawing in deep, shuddering breath, she exhaled slow before pivoting on her heel to face him. "Thorfinn, I don't know what to—"

His lips crashing down over hers cut short whatever rambling statement she was about to offer. Wrapping his arms around her, he pulled her tight against his chest.

She opened to him eagerly, dropping her bundled cloak to the floor. A delicious little thrill ran through her body as her fingers gripped the front of his robes and she darted her tongue into his mouth.

After a heated moment, he broke the kiss, dropping his forehead down against hers, his breathing rough and uneven.

As she, too, caught her breath, she actually thought she felt the sting of tears behind her closed eyelids. "I thought you were angry with me."

With a quiet chuckle, he shook his head. "Oh, no. I  _was_  angry." He opened his eyes, his hands slipping up to cup her face, but he waited for her to meet his gaze before he went on. "I was angry because the only hands that should  _ever_ be on you are  _mine_."

She could feel a rush of heat through her at his growled words, at the way he was looking at her as he held her so close that she could feel the solid warmth of his frame against hers, and the whisper of his breath over her skin. She knew there was supposed to be something too possessive in his statement that should bother her.

But it only sounded  _entirely_  too perfect.

"Then promise not to let anyone else ever touch me."

Nodding, Thorfinn lowered his head, his mouth capturing hers in another hungry kiss.

She wasn't certain quite how they managed, but it seemed that his lips never left hers as she scrambled to rid him of his robes, and he assisted her in slipping off her dress.

Undergarments? Banished with a flick of his wand—which he then dropped atop the scatterings of fabric strewn about the floor around them. But not before he cast a quick Contraceptive Charm on her abdomen, the tingling sensation of the magic taking effect making her giggle into his mouth.

When she felt the press of his bared skin against hers, she couldn't help breaking away. She wanted to see him, yet, as she dragged in gulps of air, a pleasant hum of heat zinging through her body, she couldn't seem to pull her gaze from his.

His brow furrowed as he looked down at her. "What is it?"

Hermione shrugged, aware of every inch of him pressed to her; aware of his splayed fingers cupping her arse to hold her there. Something so raw and primal and  _animal_  in that, and yet . . . .

"I just can't help thinking that—" She paused, wetting suddenly dry lips with the tip of her tongue. "Maybe I was wrong."

Blue eyes shooting wide, he couldn't help a chuckle. "I didn't know you could even utter those words."

A surprised laugh bubbled out of her, even as she slapped his chest. "Prat. I meant I'm starting to think . . . maybe there is something to this whole  _fate_ thing."

Thorfinn's smile faded as he slid one hand up along her side to hold her face. "Is that a good thing?"

"Yes." She turned her head against the delicate pressure of his hand to brush her lips over the tips of his fingers. "Now take me upstairs."

He chewed his bottom lip for a moment, barely holding back an amused grin. "Now take me upstairs . . . ?"

Again, she smacked him on the chest. "Now take me upstairs you lumbering Viking!"

Tipping his head to one side, his eyebrows lifted in an expectant look as he waited, still.

Her cheeks flushed as she let her gaze trail over his handsome features in the dim light of the darkened foyer. " _My_  lumbering Viking."

"There we are," he said, that grin breaking free. But he left her no time to respond as he scooped up the naked witch and tossed her—gently—over his shoulder.

"Thorfinn Rowle, this was  _not_  what I was expecting!"

"Oh, c'mon." He laughed as he started up the stairs. "I've come to think of  _this_  as one of the staples of our relationship."

Hermione certainly couldn't say she minded the view. Biting her lip to hold in a strangely shy giggle, she let her arms dangle to brush her hands over his arse.

He paused on the staircase and tried to look at her over his shoulder. "You just want us to fall down this staircase, don't you?"

"Funny," she said, speaking between the kisses she had randomly decided to place on the small of his back. "Here I thought you had better concentration than that."

"You are  _so_ in for it, Princess." His words were playful growl as he continued climbing.

Hermione sort of . . . lost herself in her task as he went up, and then moved along the corridor. She barely heard him kick open his bedroom door, as she was rather preoccupied with running the tip of her tongue along his spine.

She was pulled from this by his hands grasping her hips to toss her down. A tiny yelp tore from her throat as she found herself in the air for a second before she landed on the bed.

Thorfinn was on her in a heartbeat, his hands braced on either side of her as he kissed her, before dragging his lips along her cheek and down the side of her throat. Over her collarbone and down to her breasts. He lingered there, nipping and suckling her nipples until they hardened against his tongue . . . of course, there was the added bonus of the way it made her squirm and wriggle excitedly beneath him.

Hermione raked her fingers through his long hair as he moved lower, along her rib cage and over her abdomen, his hand slipping down to part her thighs. She couldn't help the ecstatic little whimper that came out of her, or the way she moved her hips, pressing closer to him as he settled between her bent knees.

She shivered under the sliding of his fingers as he parted her; threw her head back, gasping at the first stroke of his tongue.

That was all the urging he needed. He slid his hands beneath her, holding her to his mouth as he lapped and suckled, his mouth buried against her.

"Oh, dear God," she managed in a breathless, groaned tumble of words as she arched her back, her fingers gripping tight. The vibration against her as he chuckled was delicious and she uttered a pleading whimper in response.

He tilted his head this way and that, changing the angle of his mouth ever so slightly as he coaxed her into orgasm.

Hermione could distantly hear herself whispering utter  _nonsense_  as she strained beneath the workings of his lips and tongue. She pushed herself against him even as she trembled, her already taut muscles rebelling at the attempt.

When the tension drained from her, her hips bucking and rolling in shaky time with his ministrations, he slowed, easing to a stop only after the last shivering motion of her body ceased.

As she caught her breath, she raised up on her elbows, watching as he brushed lazy kisses along her inner thighs. "All right, Viking. On your back!"

Thorfinn lifted his head, a surprised smile curving his lips. "Well . . . ." After a moment of clearly being at a loss for how to respond, he recovered, nodding as he shrugged. "As you command, Princess."

He shifted on the bed, turning to lie on his back. Clasping his hands behind his head, he offered her a wink as he waited for her limbs to steady enough that she could move.

"Don't you dare laugh at me," she said in a scolding tone as she rolled over, her legs still just the littlest bit shaky as she straddled him.

The smirk that played on his lips then was strangely affectionate as he watched her dip her head to press kisses to his chest. "I wasn't laughing."

Recreating what he'd done, she moved lower, slowly, her skin sliding against his. She raked her teeth over his nipples in gentle, dragging pulls that earned her a grunting breath from him.

Further she went, her hand sliding down to grasp his cock, her fingers circling and stroking. She traced over the lines of his abdomen with the tip of her tongue.

He watched her as she moved lower, brushing kisses against his hips, in turn as her hand worked him. Dear  _God_ , her teasing was going to be the death of him.

Finally, she sank between his legs, lifting him to her lips. Yet, just as she caught the head of his cock in a suckling kiss, a surprised giggle bubbled out of her.

His brows shot up. This was _not_  a moment when a man wanted to hear his witch laughing. "What is so funny?"

"I promise I'm not laughing at you," she said, giggling, still, as she sat up—as though totally detached from the moment, however, her hand continued stroking him. "I, um, I was just remembering that day I caught you in the library."

Thorfinn chuckled in spite of himself. "A memorable first meeting, if there ever was one."

She nodded. "I'm not remembering it  _now_  because of what was happening  _then_. I'm remembering because, well . . .  _yours_  was, um, the first one I'd ever seen."

The boisterous laugh she pretended to hate erupted from him, then. It went on for far longer than it should have, complete with him wiping the corners of his eyes. "Oh, I'm so sorry, Princess. I must've ruined you for all other men."

"Other men did just fine, thank you very much. I just . . . ." She shrugged, meeting his gaze. "I don't think I ever imagined I'd end up like this with _you_."

"You did say there might be something to this  _fate thing_ , didn't you?"

Her expression sobered ever so slightly as she nodded.

Holding his gaze, she moved over him. The palm of one hand braced on lower abdomen, she positioned him, easing herself down by increments.

He gripped her hips with tightly clenched fingers, letting out a pained groan at the delicious agony of entering her so slowly. As she settled against him, her frame rigid as she gave her body a moment to adjust, he used his hands on her to rock her over him, the motions slow and steady.

Warm, sweet tingles ran along her skin as she let her head fall back. She surprised herself with how eager she was to relinquish control to him. Resting her hands over his as the tension in her receded, she continued to allow his guidance of her body over his.

When she was completely at ease in his embrace, he started moving beneath her. He couldn't register anything but the blissful expression on her face as he rocked his hips, driving into her.

She gasped, shuddering, before forcing out from between clenched teeth, "God _dammit_ , Thorfinn."

He answered with a breathless chuckle as he moved her faster, thrusting into her harder and quicker with every few strokes.

Her head dropped forward, her eyes squeezed shut as she felt her muscles starting to tense. The way her body clenched tight around him as he moved into her again and again caused a violent shudder to ripple through her.

"That's it," he said, his tone rough as he forced himself to hold back. "Come for me, Princess."

How strange that his words—and his voice sounding like this—was all she needed to nudge her over the edge. A strangled moan tore from her throat as she gave in, her body stilling in his hands even while he continued rocking her as she came.

There she was again, uttering breathy, incoherent nonsense as he guided her through her orgasm. He responded with another chuckle, albeit this one a more labored sound than the last.

As it ebbed, she had to brace her hands on him to keep herself from collapsing forward. The sweet, rippling aftershocks forced her into motion over him.

Hermione opened her eyes, her breathing quick and unsteady as she met his gaze. His expression was pained in the most wonderful way.

Nodding in understanding, she shifted a little, giving herself better leverage as she finally took over. "Your turn, Viking."

Again, he laughed, his hands gripping her, still, though an attempt at guiding her motions had ceased. His head tipped back and he let out a choked groaning sound as he thrust into her, hard and fast, one final time, before he froze.

She bit her lip to hold in a moan at  _just_  how good that sharp stroke had felt. Rocking her hips, she ground herself against him until he was spent.

Easing to a halt only after he settled against the bed, she remained where she was. Hermione waited for their inhalations to even out and their pulses to steady.

As he caught his breath in rasping gulps of air, he opened his eyes. Reaching out, he cupped her face in his hands and pulled her down for a hungry, lingering kiss.

Once more, she let his hands guide her as he moved her off him and pulled her into his arms to lay against him.

She uttered an exhausted giggle as she snuggled down, pillowing her head in the hollow of his shoulder. "At least in the morning, I won't have to ask what I'm doing in your bed."

Yawning, Thorfinn shrugged under her, a smile in his voice as he said, "You won't  _have_  to, but I'm starting to enjoy the tradition of it."

Hermione shook her head, her eyes drifting closed. "Go to sleep, you Viking."

"After you, Princess."

* * *

Neither of them could say they were terribly surprised that they spent the following week—aside from meals and tending to Uncle—in Thorfinn's bedroom. What they were surprised about was that they'd gone a week without any interruptions from Voldemort.

As she rose from the bed on the first late morning following the most mindlessly blissful week of her life—or anyone's life, she was willing to bet—he reached out, half-asleep, to catch her wrist. With a laugh she looked back at him. Her lumbering Viking of a wizard had one eye cracked open, if not for that, she would have sworn he was still dozing.

"I'm just going to get some clothes so I can wash up."

"Simple solution for that," he said, his voice deep and rough with just waking up. "Move your things in here."

She sat on the edge of the bed, contemplating his suggestion. "Share your room?"

"Why not?"

"Because I'm certain at some point we're going to get into an argument that will make us each happy to have our own space for a night."

As he was about to rumble out a protest, or an agreement, there was no telling which, really, whatever he might've said was cut short by a hissing breath. His expression miserable, he pulled himself to sit up.

Hermione had no time to appreciate how nice a sight he made, bare and sleep-rumpled as the blanket fell to pool around his lhips. She knew precisely what that sound from him meant.

"Well, we had a good run," she said with a wink.

"Mm-hmm." He pulled her close, kissing her breathless before he let her go and stood from the bed. "We  _will_  be continuing that when I return, by the way."

She giggled, watching his naked form appreciatively as he crossed to the floor to disappear into the bathroom.

* * *

Hermione knocked on the door, carefully pushing it open as she balanced the tray with Uncle's lunch on it. "Sir? Penner has brought your lunch."

The masquerade was ridiculous, but it kept the peace. She hoped he was having one on of his doddering moments. When he was sweet and a little lost, he was actually a pleasure to be around.

He actually forgot to hate Thorfinn when he was like that and occasionally shared fragments of the golden-haired wizard's childhood. But it was only a few moments of recollection before he couldn't recall what he was talking about and drifted aimlessly through any number of topics.

As she stepped into the room, she saw him dozing in his armchair by the fireplace. Her shoulders slumped and she held in a frown. Usually these were the times that saw to him waking in one of those dreaded incidents of skewed lucidity.

Setting the tray down, she turned to him. "Sir?" She touched his shoulder . . . only to feel how cold his skin was right through the fabric of his robes.

"Oh, God." Lowering herself carefully beside him, she pressed to fingers to the side of his wrinkled throat. It must've happened shortly after she'd left from bringing him his breakfast.

Eyes closing, she sat on the floor and dropped her face into her hands.

* * *

Thorfinn arrived home from his summons later that night to find Hermione sitting at the bottom of the staircase. Her elbows were braced on her knees and her chin rested against the heels of her palms.

"Princess? What's wrong?"

She looked up, so deep in her own thoughts she'd not even heard him come in. "Oh, um . . . ." She shifted over on the step to make room for him. "Sit down."

He paused mid-stride, his expression carefully blank before he moved to take a seat beside her. "This can't be good."

Hermione drew in a steadying breath, not entirely certain how to tell him. After moment of numbing, awkward silence, she turned to look at him. "When, uh, when I brought lunch to your uncle this afternoon, he'd dozed off in his chair by the fire and never . . . never woke up." Bloody hell, she hadn't even liked the old man very much, why were there tears beading in the corners of her eyes?

"Oh." Thorfinn's brow furrowed, his gaze dropping to the floor. He was quiet for several heartbeats. "I . . . I always thought I'd be relieved when he finally died, but now I . . . . I don't know."

"Are you okay?"

Turning his attention to his witch, he found her gaze on his, already. "I don't know," he said, again, with a barely perceptible shrug.

Scooting herself against his side, Hermione put her head down on his shoulder, sitting with him in the hushed house as he sorted through his feelings.


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter Fourteen**

Hermione knew what was coming before Thorfinn even opened his mouth. Frowning in response to his troubled expression, she shook her head and held his uncle's wand out for him to take.

He accepted it with a heavy sigh. "I'm sorry, Princess, I wish there was some other way—"

"I know. Traditional wizard burial, his wand goes with him."

It wasn't lost on him how her hand shook as she'd relinquished her hold on the weapon. She'd made it perfectly clear to him how utterly powerless she'd felt without one; now here he was, forcing her to give it up.

Pulling her close, he wrapped his arms around her and dropped a kiss down upon the top of her wild hair. "I promise I'll think of something."

She ducked her head down against his chest, hiding a grin. " _You're_  going to think? We might be here a while."

"Oh, now that's not very nice," he said, despite the smile in his voice.

With another kiss to the top of her head, he gently extracted her from his embrace and left with the wand to complete the funeral preparations. Hermione watched him exit the house, holding in a sigh.

The preparations had taken three days, with the funeral tomorrow, and Thorfinn still hadn't decided how he felt about his uncle's passing.

Shaking her head, she returned upstairs to continue with the monotonous task of sorting through the items in Uncle's wing of the house, according to a list of specific instructions Thorfinn had given her.  _Anything_  to bide the time and serve as a distraction until what was likely to be another painfully awkward moment in the _public_  eye was relief.

* * *

The next afternoon rolled around and, as Hermione grabbed the stupid leash off the dresser in her room, she found herself grateful that Thorfinn had left her out of attending the viewing last night. Straightening her black dress robes one final time, she stepped from the room and continued down to the main floor of the house, where her big, lumbering Viking of a wizard waited.

As she reached the bottom of the staircase, where he was already holding her cloak open for her, she halted, mid-stride, her eyes wide.

Her startled expression gave  _him_  a start, too. "What?"

"What did you do to your face?"

Raising one hand to touch his fingers to his naked jawline, he said, "I thought I'd shave for the funeral. You don't like it." It, very clearly, was not question.

Thankfully, Hermione found that unlike how some men's facial hair hid flaws, Thorfinn Rowle was just as handsome with _out_  his beard as he was with it.

But she still preferred him with it.

Drawing a deep breath and letting it out slowly, she shook her head. "I didn't say that, just . . . warn a witch, next time."

He shook his head, chuckling. "C'mon, let's get this over with."

"Yes,  _Master_ ," she said, her tone teasing as she continued across the floor to stand before him.

Thorfinn spoke as her pulled her cloak around her shoulders, his expression turning just a little grim as he accepted the leash from her hands. "Careful, or I'll make you _keep_ calling me that."

"I might not mind so much, provided you prove worthy of such a title."

Once more he chuckled, despite his current unpleasant task of securing the ruby collar around her throat. He settled his hands over her shoulders as he held her gaze, the smile which had just reappeared on his lips fading. "Thank you, Princess."

Of c _ourse_  he'd realized she was keeping him distracted so he would not think too much on the funeral before they actually got there, she thought. How could it be so hard for her to imagine that there was a time before  _this_? Before she'd become the person who would go to pains trying to protect the smile of fearsome Death Eater Thorfinn Rowle?

"You're welcome."

* * *

The funeral for Bridger Rowle—now that Hermione had been barraged with the old man's name for the last four days—was not as terrible or dismally boring as she expected. Well, she supposed that the sight of a few Ministry officials in attendance put her on guard, so she was sharply alert and aware, praying that Dolores Umbridge would not use the funeral as an excuse to come and torment her.

Given how she felt about the woman and her appalling facility, she couldn't say she would not interrupt the service by flinging herself across the crowd in an attempt to murder the old pastel toad with her bare hands. She felt rather certain Thorfinn would  _conveniently_  forget to keep a tight hold on her leash, if that happened.

There was a smattering of wizards and witches she didn't recognize, likely pure-bloods who showed up simply because one of their own had died, as far as she could tell. A reporter from the Daily Prophet, the usual collection of Death Eaters, and Lucius and Draco Malfoy—whom she granted a snide look for appearances sake, but from the way he nodded in reply when no one was looking, she guessed his father had filled him in on how much she knew.

Unfortunately, due to her place at Thorfinn's side, Hermione was utterly surrounded by said usual collection of Death Eaters. With Antonin having dutifully place himself on her other side, she could sense Alecto burning wrathful holes in the back of her head from where she sat, two rows back.

Was there ever going to be a way to convince the besotted witch that Hermione wasn't any threat to her imaginary romance?

Hermione chewed her lip as she listened to the sermon, or  _mostly_  listened, anyway. She was really occupying her time with trying to think up ways to get Alecto off her case in this matter which had nothing to do with her.

However, given that the woman was a few biscuits short of a tea party, Hermione's list came up sorely lacking.

When the time arrived to deliver the eulogy, Thorfinn gave Hermione a meaningful look, before handing the cuff of her leash to Antonin. Antonin, who—to his credit—appeared a bit abashed at accepting claim over the dreadful thing.

As Thorfinn spoke, Hermione found she couldn't focus. He talked of Uncle Bridger's accomplishments, whatever those might be, talked of the long life he'd lived, but managed to leave out any of the soured personal relations between the old man and himself. She knew that was the context of his speech, because she'd given him pointers while he'd worked on it, but she could not focus.

Forcing a gulp down her throat, she turned her head to look back. Sure enough, Alecto's fiery, displeased gaze was on her, still.

Only renewed, she imagined, by the thought of Antonin Dolohov holding her leash.

Antonin noticed the young witch's head-turn. "What's the matter?" he asked in a voice so low, she almost didn't hear him.

"Your lovesick cohort back there means to kill me, I think," Hermione whispered back. "Well,  _still_." There was no forgetting the first time she'd spoken these very words to Thorfinn during Rabastan's dinner party.

"Oh?" He let out an exasperated sigh. "That woman cannot take a hint. Let's give her something to  _really_  be upset about."

Hermione didn't like the sound of that. She liked the look that passed between Antonin and Thorfinn, even less. "What are you going to do?"

"Nothing terrible, I assure you," the dark-haired wizard said as he looped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her into his side.

"Oh, dear  _God_ ," Hermione managed in a shivering whisper, certain she could _feel_  angry sparks bursting off the other witch in response.

"I knew it, you  _are_  trying to kill me."

Antonin's shoulders shook in a quiet chuckle. "Just having bit of fun at Alecto's expense. She won't actually hurt you—she seems scary, but she's too fearful of Thorfinn's temper to lay a finger on you."

The aforementioned wizard returned to his seat, just then. Antonin returned the cuff, but kept his arm around Hermione.

"Are you quite finished, yet?" Thorfinn asked under his breath.

"How angry is she?"

Glancing back over his shoulder, Thorfinn noted the ugly blotches of color staining Alecto's cheeks. "She seems to be turning a very interesting shade of tomato."

Antonin nodded. "Just a few minutes longer, then."

With a groan, Hermione dropped her face into her hands.

* * *

As the procession moved to the cemetery, she noticed someone in the distance, observing the event. It reminded her of far too many films she'd seen as a child, with some mysterious person lurking behind the gravestones, or the lone tree, trying not to be seen.

Hermione watched the cloaked figure throughout the end of the ceremony. When the attendees lined up to pay their respects, the figure turned away, but not before she caught the glint of golden curls from beneath the cloak's hood.

_Reina?_

A fist squeezed around her heart. Hermione wanted to run to her friend, but she forced her feet to stay planted firmly—not difficult, as she was stuck beside Thorfinn while he accepted everyone's parting words of condolence.

She could not draw anyone's attention to the other witch, she owed Reina that much. Dutifully dropping her gaze to the ground, Hermione willed a sudden wash of pained tears to stay in her eyes, where they bloody well belonged.

After everyone but a few lone stragglers had left—luckily with no more bouts of Antonin amusing himself at Alecto's expense—Thorfinn ducked his head toward her, his voice low. "I have something to take care of. I'm going trust Dolohov to see you safely home."

At his words, she immediately turned this way and that, scanning for any lurking Carrow witches. When she found none, she relaxed, instantly. "Oh, fine. Not much choice, have I?"

Thorfinn snorted a chuckle as he shook his head. "No."

"Will you at least tell me where you're going? I know you weren't summoned."

"No," he said again, but his look was quite apologetic, this time. "It's just I'm going to try something, and if it doesn't work, then there won't be any point in telling you."

Hermione frowned. That didn't sound  _at all_  suspicious.

She watched him through narrowed eyes as he again handed Antonin the cuff. Made it clear through her expression as the dark-haired man tucked her under his arm, once more, to drag her through side-along Apparation, that she was not happy at being kept in the dark.

Thorfinn Rowle managed stoke her ire just a bit as they departed by offering her a goofy little wave.

"I  _hate_  when he does things like that," she said, grousing as Antonin released her on the doorstep of the Rowle house.

"Oh, I'm certain he knows."

Hermione ignored the amusement edging the man's tone as she lifted her gaze to his. "How can you be sure?"

He shrugged, his hands up in a placating gesture. "Because that's  _why_  he does it."

She gave an angry pout in response.

At the sight, Antonin chuckled and shook his head. "Okay, I was wrong." He pointed to her plumped lower lip. " _That's_ why he does it."

Scoffing, she slapped his arm.

Only after he secured her in the house—protective enchantments cast to prevent anyone but Thorfinn from entering for the next several hours—did she wonder when, exactly, she'd become relaxed enough around Antonin Dolohov that she would actually consider herself on friendly terms with him.

* * *

Thorfinn was relieved to find the place vacant of any of his fellow Death Eaters. The last thing he wanted was to have to explain his presence there.

He could always lie, certainly, but there was a chance the falsehood would be discovered, and _that_  would raise suspicions.

With a deep breath and a shake of his head, he lifted his fist to knock loudly on the aged wooden door.

After a few moments, he heard footfalls, and the sounds of someone shuffling about on the other side. A bolt slid out of place and the door opened.

"Oh, Mr. Rowle," the old man said. "What is it your Dark Lord requires of me _this_  time?"

Thorfinn lowered his head, moving closer to the other man's ear, yet he darted a gaze about, once more, before speaking. "I'm not here on the Dark Lord's behalf."

Something in Thorfinn's tone, in his changed mannerisms caught the old man's attention. "Oh?"

"I . . .  _I_  need a favor from you."

"Not sure what you think _I_  can do for you."

Lowering his head further, still, Thorfinn dropped his voice to a barely audible whisper. "It's a favor to me, but it's  _for_  Hermione Granger."

Immediately, the old man straightened up, backpedaling into the house. "Well, why didn't you say so in the first place! Come in, boy, and we'll see what I can do!"

* * *

Hermione had returned to sorting through the rooms in Uncle's wing to pass the time. He'd had his own personal library, stocked with antiquated tomes she'd never even heard of before.

It felt very odd being in this part of the house when she was home alone. The old man's rooms very much had the same creepy vibe to them as some long-abandoned building, despite that they'd been empty only a few days.

"No, Hermione," she said to herself with a shake of her head. "You're tired and could probably use a meal. Stop working!"

She had to force herself to put back the books she was sorting through and turn away.

Her recent hours in this part of the house had enabled her to finally find the servant's staircase that led down to the kitchen. She didn't like it much, it was dark and twisty, and the steps creaked beneath her feet, but she didn't feel like traversing the entire house just to get to the pantry so that she might throw together something for dinner, either.

As she opened the door that let out into the kitchen, she heard someone moving about. Her hand shot up to cover her mouth, shielding a surprised gasp. There was a ward on the house, currently, but wasn't it possible someone could've sneaked in while they were at the funeral?

Her stomach twisted at the thought of that someone lurking about the house all the while as she'd been upstairs.

She crept from the doorway toward the stove on silent footfalls. Whoever they were, they were making themselves quite at home rummaging about in the pantry.

With a wince, she lifted the cast iron pan from the currently unlit burner, where she typically left it, and continued toward the large, noise-filled cupboard.

Lifting the makeshift weapon over her head, she rounded the wall into the pantry only to stop in her tracks at the sight of a Viking's back turned to her.

"Dammit, Thorfinn!"

He jumped, spinning on his heel to face her. "God, Princess! You scared me!"

Chestnut eyes flashed wide and she waved the pan at him. "I scared  _you_?!"

Glancing at the item, a surprised laugh bubbled out of him. "Where you going to use that as a weapon against an intruder? Oh, that is . . .  _adorably_ Muggle of you."

Hissing out an angry breath from between clenched teeth, she swatted him on the elbow with it.

" _Ow_ ," he said, immediately covering the impact site with his free hand. "Okay, that actually  _does_  hurt."

With a frown, she pivoted on her heel and headed back to the stove, setting the pan down. "Well, serves you right for scaring me when I'm otherwise unarmed."

"I've, um . . . I've fixed that for you."

Disbelief pinching her features, she turned to look at him. Whatever he meant, it couldn't possibly be what she thought he was saying. "You've done what, now?"

He shrugged, stepping from the pantry and reaching a hand into his robes. "I didn't want to tell you, in case it wasn't possible, but . . . . I went to see Mr. Olivander."

Her brows shot up as she watched him extract one of the too-familiar long, black boxes and held it out to her.

"He didn't want to help, at first, but when I told him it was for you, he was more than happy. Seems untraceable wands  _are_  a thing. I was only guessingthey were possible."

She accepted the box, her fingers strangely numb. Hermione backpedaled to the table and fell down into the nearest seat.

There was the most bizarre sense of nearly not wanting to open it, and her hands shook as she lifted that narrow black lid. Inside, the most beautifully delicate thing rested . . . . the design so similar to her old wand, but it was slightly longer, the variety of wood a darker hue.

Breathless, she curled her fingers around it and lifted it from the velvet padding. Immediately the calming sense of connection, the sharpening of her magic, sang through her, setting off a giddy sparking in the pit of her stomach.

She'd forgotten what it had felt like the first time she'd held her own wand.

"Oh my God, Thorfinn!" She lifted her watery gaze to his, her throat clogged with happy tears. "I  _can't_  believe you did this. I love you!"

The smile at her initial reaction slid right off his face, replaced by an expression of utter shock. Yet, it did not come close to rivaling her own look of surprise.

Dropping her gaze to the floor, she swallowed hard. As she reminded herself to breathe, she nodded and repeated her declaration. "I love you."

Collecting himself, he moved beside her chair. That lumbering Viking of a wizard lowered down onto one knee to look into her face. They were both silent for several heartbeats as they watched each other's expressions.

"Does that scare you?" he asked, his voice tumbling from his lips, soft and low.

Hermione shrugged, unable to help the little tremor in her words as she responded, "A little."

"Good, because I was terrified when  _I_ realized."

Understanding his meaning instantly, her jaw dropped. "You—you . . . with  _me_?"

He nodded, biting his lower lip to keep in a laugh at himself.

Her face turned quite serious as her gaze held his. "Tell me."

Thorfinn rolled his eyes, his head shaking. "C'mon, Princess, you know I'm rubbish at talking about my feelings."

"So just tell me this once and you won't ever have to say it again . . . unless  _you_  want to."

With a sigh, he slid his hand around the back of her neck and pulled her to him, kissing her senseless for a heated minute. Breaking away, he pressed his forehead to hers as he said breathlessly, "I love you."

When he opened his eyes, it was to see his witch grinning at him. "Uh-oh. I don't know if I like that face you're making. Usually means you're plotting something."

Hermione shrugged as he pulled away enough to get a better look at her mischievous expression. "I was just thinking we should celebrate this moment. Only question is . . . food first, or bed first?"

_God_ , she really did know how to appeal to that Viking side of him, didn't she? "We could always bring the food upstairs," he suggested.

She was out of the chair, and he on his feet, at the same moment as she said, "Done!"

* * *

Kingsley exchanged a look of surprise with Neville before they both turned back to face Garrick Olivander. "Really?" the dark-skinned wizard asked, his brows his on his forehead.

The old man nodded. "I was surprised, myself, but the magic wouldn't have worked if the boy hadn't been sincere in his request."

"So he really is—"

"One of the redeemable ones," Reina said from where she sat in a corner of the room, her expression smug, though she was trying painfully hard for it not to be. "Told you."

Her companion, clasping her hand innocently as he sat beside her, tutted at her.

"Right, well . . . ." Bill heaved a weighted sigh as he scratched thoughtfully at his scarred chin. "Question is, how do we get to him without endangering you, Hermione,  _and_  him?"

"We wait," Reina's companion said. "Just a bit longer. Too many on the inside could bring undo trouble. But when the time comes . . . let me do it."


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter Fifteen**

For the first time since they'd started sharing a bed, Hermione awoke  _before_ Thorfinn. Six days had passed since the funeral, during which he'd been summoned four evenings out of that time. She was unashamed of precisely how much of the rest of those days they'd spent in his bedroom, hiding out from the world.

Shifting onto her stomach, she propped a fist under her chin and watched his slumbering face for a few moments.  _Such_  a pretty man he was—even more so to her now that he'd let his beard grow back. Funny, she'd never imagined that she'd develop an affection for men's facial hair.

She gave herself a little shake, remembering that she'd woken with a mission! Every morning that he'd woken before her, he'd taken full advantage of the opportunity that afforded him.

And he was keeping score! Infuriating Viking.

This was her chance to start evening things out. Biting into her bottom lip as she watched his face, she slid a hand beneath the covers.

There was something so deliciously naughty—even with all they were in the habit of doing both to, and for, each other, as it was—in the feeling of circling her fingers around his cock. Already a little hard, he twitched in her hand, and she had to stifle a mischievous giggle in response.

He stirred just a bit, a quiet groan rumbling in the back of his throat as she worked her fist over him in gentle, lazy strokes to start. Thorfinn tipped his head back against the pillow and breathed deep, a smile curving his lips.

Grinning at his reaction—and how easily he jumped to life at her touch—she moved her fingers faster.

"You really want to be in trouble this morning, don't you, Princess?"

His sleepy tumble of words made her laugh, but she refused to let his early-morning snark trip her up. "Shut up and take your punishment like a man, Viking."

Blue eyes still closed, he clasped his fingers behind his head on the pillow. "If  _this_ is punishment, I should really get myself on your bad side more often."

She scoffed, determination setting into her expression as she quickened her pace. The way his jaw dropped a little, and the sound of his breath catching in his throat, rewarded her for her efforts.

Thorfinn shifted against the bed, lifting his hips to push himself through her stroking fingers just a bit faster and harder. He cracked his eyes open, meeting her gaze.

Hermione watched his expression, still. She was waiting, gauging his response. Just a bit longer, soon his eyes would scrunch closed, again, and he'd let out a shuddering gasp.

She was only surprised he hadn't shot a hand down to cover hers and guide her pace. He had a  _serious_ issue with relinquishing control.

She supposed that was all right—she usually  _very_  much liked letting him take command.

He forced his hips upward one final time, stilling as she continued working him in fast, steady strokes.  _There_  went the gasp and near-pained expression she'd been waiting for.

Unable to help that mischievous giggle finally spilling out, she was already slipping a leg back off the bed as he spent himself. When he finished and settled back on the mattress, muttering something that sounded like an accusation about whose turn it would be to wash the bed sheets, she slid her hand from him.

She'd nearly gotten away from the bed when he caught her wrist.  _Dammit._  She always seemed to forget how quick he was for someone so large.

"Where _do_  you think you're going?"

Hermione didn't want to look back at him, she  _didn't_  want to look. Still, she seemed unable to stop herself from darting her gaze back to him over her shoulder.

_God_ , he was so pretty it hurt. Pushing the covers away with his free hand, all of his lovely muscles were bared to her gaze as he sat up, his face flushed, eyes bright, and his long, golden hair sleep-mussed.

"I-I was going to go wash up real quick and then pop downstairs to, uh, to make breakfast."

Nodding, he sank his teeth into his bottom lip as he tugged her backward with a slow, measured pull on her arm. "I thought I'd made it perfectly clear what I like to eat first thing in the morning. Unless you need _another_  reminder. I'd be more than happy to provide one."

"Not when you're keeping a bloody tally!" She pouted as he gave one final yank on her wrist, landing her in his lap. "I was only trying to catch up."

With another nod, he lowered his lips to the side of her throat, his free hand slipping between her thighs. "Not going to happen," he said in a breathy murmur, his mouth brushing her skin.

Her head fell back against his shoulder, a little moan tearing from her throat as his fingertips rubbed against her.

"Really going to run away when you were  _this_  wet, were you?"

Hermione uttered a shivering sigh as she squirmed in his embrace. "You know, women are capable of seeing to themselves in these situations  _quite_  easily."

Chuckling, he nipped at her throat before responding. "Mmm, really? I think you might need to provide me with a demonstration, sometime."

She shuddered, rocking her hips in lap to press herself against his fingertips just a little more insistently.

"You  _are_  eager this morning, Princess," he said in that growling tone she so adored.

But she sort of hated how he loved to talk to her when he was making it so difficult for her to focus on anything _other_ than the sweet, pulsing tingles his steadily circling fingertips were sending through her. " _God_ , shut up," she snapped, her hands gripping his forearms as her body began to tense.

He laughed, holding her tighter to him as his hand worked faster between her thighs. "Here I was getting used to you calling me Viking, but I suppose God  _is_ a promotion."

The way she murmured something nearly-incoherent about having the misfortune of being in love with an idiot as she came only made him laugh harder.

He guided her through her orgasm, his motions steady as it ebbed. With each shivering aftershock that tore through her, he slowed his pace by increments until she relaxed, entirely, and settled against him.

As she caught her breath, she reached toward him, blindly giving his shoulder a smack. "You really _are_  an idiot," she said in a subdued whisper.

"And you really  _are_  in love with me."

She nodded, the simple statement reminding her of how horribly ignorant she was letting herself be. Laying her arms over his as they wrapped around her, she sighed. "It's not fair, you know."

"What?" he asked as he settled his chin against the top of her head.

"I'm safe . . . ." She shook her head, trying to push away the sensation of tears gathering in her eyes. "I'm . . . . I'm  _happy_. How can I be happy when people I care about are out there suffering in the most horrible ways? I never imagined I could be this selfish."

Thorfinn's broad shoulders drooped as he shifted her in his lap, turning his witch to look at him. "And what, exactly, do you suppose you could do to help them that wouldn't endanger you, too?"

Her brow furrowed and she forced a sniffle. "But I would endanger myself for the smallest chance to save someone I love,  _gladly_."

He nodded, his expression suddenly more serious than she could ever recall seeing it before. "I know," he said, swallowing hard. "And that  _terrifies_  me."

She let him pull her into a hug—not that there was much stopping a man of Thorfinn Rowle's stature from hugging a witch her size, if he was really of a mind to. For several minutes they sat in silence. She couldn't pretend she didn't understand his fear.

Every time he was summoned, she did everything she could to ignore the icy terror that pooled in the pit of her stomach that he might not walk back through the doors. The relief that swept through her every time he returned home was so potent, she was often surprised it left her with the strength to remain standing.

"You need to do some shopping later," she said after some time.

"You are the absolute queen of non-sequitur discussion, you know that?"

Laughing, she sat up straight to meet his gaze. "I was going to mention it before, but then some big lumbering Viking decided we didn't need to eat breakfast this morning."

"Oh, I've been demoted so quickly," he said in mock deflated tone.

With another smack to his shoulder, she shook her head—though she couldn't hide the smile his humor never failed to bring to her lips. "I'm being serious. The pantry is starting to look a bit bare."

"Fine. I'll go do the menial task of buying food." His expression soured a little, despite that there was something so deeply amusing in the mental picture of the big, scary Death Eater going grocery shopping. "Reina used to handle that, so I suppose I hadn't thought about it. You'll want to stay home, I'd imagine."

"Over having you drag me about the market on a leash? Yes, please." She caught one of his large hands between both of hers and raised to her lips, brushing a kiss across his knuckles. "I don't like being seen out with you in public like that, anyway. I'd want people to see me with you, because I  _am_ with you."

"I know."

Hermione frowned, her mouth still pressed lightly to his hand. "I don't suppose anyone will ever understand us, anyway."

He turned his hand in her grasp, touching his fingers to her chin and tilting her head so that he could meet her gaze. "Do you need anyone to?"

"Need? No," she said with a small laugh. "But it would be nice. Reina understood. She knew from the beginning this would happen. Or, well, she was really,  _really_ , hoping guessed it  _probably_  would."

Thorfinn's brows shot up. "She did?"

"That's why she didn't fight your big plan to have me play servant to you. She figured by the time I was healthy enough to do that, things would've changed between you and me. She thought I'd be a good influence on you."

"Oh?" He smirked as he paused long enough to drop a kiss to the top of her head. "Talked about me often when I wasn't about, did you?"

"Not really, don't get cute. I meant we were discussing how you've changed, and she said it was because of me. That was . . . ." She bit her lip and looked away. "That was the night MacNair took her."

He refused to let that particular reminder segue their conversation toward that awful matter. He didn't want to think about it, neither did she. Wherever Reina was, she was _safe_. He  _had_  to believe that or he'd go mad, he knew that, and likely take Hermione down with him.

"Well, the day we see her again, she'll have a field day with I Told You So's."

Hermione smiled and snuggled against him, once more. She was quite looking forward to that day.

* * *

A few nights later, the bell rang shortly after dinner. Hermione looked up from where she was curled beside Thorfinn on the sofa in the study. So much for a quiet evening.

"If that's Rabastan, I'm going to kill him," he said with a resigned sigh as he gently pushed her onto the other cushion to stand.

"He actually wasn't so awful at his dinner party."

With a nod, he mimicked sipping a drink. "That's because he had reason to hold back. He takes playing host  _very_  seriously."

Rolling her eyes, Hermione nodded back in understanding.

She went back to her reading as he left to answer the door. After some hushed discussion she couldn't quite make sense of, she heard three sets of footfalls come back toward the study.

The sound of someone clearing their throat drew her attention and she looked up. Lucius Malfoy stood at Thorfinn's shoulder, and Miss Isla Black-Fawley was peeking around the silver-haired wizard's arm.

She was delighted to see Isla again, and even a bit relieved to see Lucius there, rather than Rabastan. But her stomach twisted as she thought what being around the other witch meant.

"I'll get the leash," she said with sigh as she set aside her book.

"No, no!" Isla pushed her way into the room, holding up her hands. "Please don't. I know Lucius and Mr. Rowle won't tell anyone if you're without it for just a few hours. Will they?" She fixed her dark-eyed gaze on the two wizards still in the doorway.

The men exchanged a glance before alternately shrugging and shaking their heads. "No."

"I hope you don't mind the intrusion," Isla went on, satisfied with the answer. "We only thought it would be nice to have a quiet drink without drawing anyone else's attention."

"Sure, okay." Hermione nodded and stood, following the others into the drawing room.

As predicted during that first rather awful night at Malfoy Manor, drinks without an inebriated Rabastan Lestrange present were quite fun. Never in a million years would Hermione have imagined she'd be casually sipping Fire Whiskey beside Thorfinn Rowle as she laughed at some ridiculous story about family peacocks told by Lucius Malfoy. Over the course of the near three hour visit, Isla had twice excused herself to hunt for the bathroom. Poor thing must've gotten herself lost the first time, because she took so long coming back, the other witch nearly went to look for her.

When the evening was winding to a close, however, Lucius struck on the subject Hermione had been hoping not to have to think about. Ever.

"Isla and I were discussing Rabastan's upcoming anniversary celebration."

Hermione could feel Thorfinn's gaze on her suddenly, despite that she'd winced and looked away.

"I'm aware why you don't want to go, Miss Granger, but that you're obligated. Isla is in need of new dress robes for the occasion. She was wondering, well . . . Isla, dear, if you would?"

"I was wondering if you wanted to join us that day? If you're in need of an appropriate set of dress robes, that is?" The dark-haired witch nodded toward Thorfinn. "Your wizard doesn't seem the type to enjoy lingering about dress shops."

"The only downside, of course," Lucius said with a shrug and an apologetic look at both Hermione, and Thorfinn, in turn, "would be that I would need to be in possession of your leash, at all times."

Hermione was not surprised by that, of course. She couldn't go dress shopping at all without that bloody thing, no matter who held it. But going with Lucius might provide her the chance for more information about her friends, and Reina, and whatever the Resistance might be up to.

Having even a fraction of intel would put her at ease, at least.

She turned her gaze to Thorfinn. Lucius—and clearly Isla, now—might be privy to the fact that they were a little more involved than owner and property, but they still had to stick to that image in some measure.

"Would that be all right?" she asked, hoping the tone in her voice was obvious to his ears.

"Fine." He met Lucius' gaze, his jaw setting before he caught himself. "I'll be  _trusting_  you with her."

"I understand, entirely."

Isla beamed at the agreement, and even Hermione felt a little better. She'd grown rather accustomed to Reina's presence in her life in such a short time, she supposed she was eager for more girl-bonding with another witch.

Even if she couldn't escape her blasted leash the next time, around.

* * *

Four days later, Hermione stood in the dress shop, watching Isla get fitted. That witch had enviable curves that made Hermione, with her on-the-slight-side frame feel a little self-conscious. Thorfinn was  _quite_  appreciative of Hermione's figure exactly as it was, and that certainly took the sting out of a moment of involuntary self-loathing over a matter she had no true control over.

She became aware of Lucius gently tugging on her collar. Backpedaling slowly so his goddaughter would not notice her retreat, she placed herself close enough to her current watcher that her shoulder nearly brushed his arm.

"Keep your reaction in check when I tell you this," he said in a whisper so low, she barely heard it. His back was to her as he looked out the windows in a perfect guise of boredom. Isla would never know this conversation took place.

Hermione made the smallest affirmative noise in the back of her throat, the sound buried under the chatter of the sales witches tending to Isla.

"The Resistance is moving forward in their plans to raid Umbridge Home."

The mix of relief and joy she felt at those words made her want to jump out of her skin. She dug her fingernails into her palms to keep focused on the discussion.

Covering her mouth with her hand, Hermione shielded a feigned a yawn as she whispered back. "When?"

"Sometime after the anniversary celebration. The date is not set, just yet."

This time, Hermione pretended he'd drawn her attention to something outside, turning slightly to look out the window, as well. "Is there anything I can do?"

He let out an audible sigh at her question. Of course, he  _had_  to know she was going to ask. "At the moment, no." Before she could feel deflated by his response, however, he tacked on, "Although, should the opportunity ever present itself, try to get your wizard to agree to feign his assistance in protecting that place when the time comes."

Her brow furrowed, certain she'd misunderstood. "What?"

"I know he loathes that place as much as we do. The Death Eaters will most definitely be called upon to defend the facility. If even  _one_ of them is only pretending to do their job, it could be an advantage for us.

Swallowing hard, Hermione nodded. She was hoping for a more active role, like being on-site to personally hex Umbridge into the sweet Hereafter, but at least this was  _something_. Alright, the second she had the chance to discuss the  _hypothetical_  scenario of the Resistance taking down Umbridge Home—she'd think up how she heard about the Resistance when the time came—she would ask Thorfinn to stay his hand, if he could _without_  betraying what he was doing to his fellow Death Eaters and getting himself killed, in the process.

"Consider it done."


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter Sixteen**

"Thorfinn Rowle, don't you dare!"

The Viking of a wizard jumped back from the box on Hermione's bed. He tried his best to affect an appearance of perfect innocence as he clasped his hands behind his back.

"I was . . . only going to move it from the bed to the dresser, I swear."

Scowling, she stomped across the room to stand directly in front of him, her chestnut eyes narrowed as she glared up into his face. "You dirty rotten liar!"

He feigned a gasp, but she was _clearly_  unconvinced.

She withdrew her wand from where she tucked it inside her dress sleeve when they were home and gave it a wave, sealing the box shut. Her eyes remained steady on his the entire time.

"There. Now no peeks for you."

"Bloody hell, witch," he said with a chuckle and a shake of his head. "It's not like it's a wedding gown!"

"Yes, well, this little stunt suddenly makes me think that if we ever end up getting married, I'll have to hide my gown in the garden shed just to keep you from peeking!"

A frustratingly smug grin curved his lips. "Are you saying you  _expect_  to marry me someday?"

Hermione stamped a heel in irritation—honestly, he was the king of sidetracking. "I'm saying you can't be trusted alone with a closed box of Every Flavor Beans! You're worse than a cat,  _always_ poking at things."

"Okay, okay," he said, realizing how disproportionate her anger was to the simple crime of trying to sneak a look at the dress robes she'd be wearing to Rabastan's anniversary celebration.

Pushing aside the sealed box, he sat on the edge of the bed. Catching her delicate hands in his, he met her gaze. "What is this  _really_ about?"

She shrugged. "Maybe I just don't want you to see the dress before I'm in it."

Thorfinn arched a brow, the resulting expression speaking volumes on how much he doubted the sincerity of her words.

Letting out a sigh, she dropped her attention to the floor. "You know that day is going to be incredibly difficult for me, for . . . obvious reasons. I'm just trying to carve out little bits of happiness that I can look forward to, to make it not so awful to get through."

"And me seeing you in this amazing mystery dress would make you happy?"

She nodded. "I know it sounds silly, but yes."

"Okay. Then I'll leave it be until you're ready to show me."

Hermione smiled. "Thank you."

His expression suddenly serious, Thorfinn tugged her to fall into his lap. "And, if the party gets to be too much for you, tell me. We'll sneak off somewhere so you . . . can breathe."

She bit her lip to hold in a giggle. "Yes, I'm sure you're very concerned with my _breathing_."

"Well, it certainly does help a great many things," he said with a laugh.

With a sigh, she settled against him and used her hands in his to tug him arms around her waist. He settled his chin in the crook of her neck, and from the way he exhaled, she could tell he'd closed his eyes and relaxed beneath her.

Since her hushed discussion with Lucius four days ago, she hadn't yet found a way to bring up the hypothetical scenario he'd wanted her to sniff around about. He didn't give her a time frame on when to get an answer back to him, but she thought that perhaps the sooner, the better.

Hermione expected there would be some opportunity to safely relay Thorfinn's answer when she and Lucius crossed paths at Rabastan's party—which was only a week away now. She hated having this hanging over her head. The nervousness that came with wondering how to even bring up the subject settled like a ball of ice in the pit of her stomach whenever she fretted too long about it.

The sooner she could know where he stood, the better she would feel. And  _definitely_  the more secure she would be in letting him into her heart.

Thorfinn shifted back on the bed a little and she heard the rustling of his hip against the corner of her box from the dress shop. Of course! Shop-girl chatter!  _Honestly, Hermione, you can be_  so  _thick, sometimes!_

"I wanted to talk to you about something."

"Hmm?"

Swallowing hard, licked her lips before managing to broach the subject. "When I was first getting settled here, Reina had sat me down and told me about all the things that happened while I was on the run. She told me about that horrible place Umbridge operates."

She was comforted by the shiver of revulsion that went through Thorfinn.

Now he understood why she had no questions about Umbridge Home when Rabastan brought it up that night at Malfoy Manor. "I'd really rather _not_  talk about that shithole."

"Well, I need to talk about it. I heard something that has me worried."

"A great many things about that place should have the whole of Wizarding Britain worried, Princess."

"Look," she said, shifting sideways against him to curl up in his lap and duck her head against his chest. "I heard some witches talking when I went on that shopping trip with Isla. They were talking about this group called the Resistance? I can only assume by the name that they're continuing my good work from before the War."

Thorfinn uttered a half-hearted snicker.

"They were talking about Umbridge Home and how horrible it is—only people in Wizarding Britain who believe  _any_  good can come from a place like that are the ones utilizing it. And one of them wondered . . . ." Hermione drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. "She wondered why the Resistance doesn't do something about that place. And it occurred to me that it's very much within the realm of possibility that they actually _might_."

He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "Why are you even thinking about this? And isn't it a turn of events you'd be happy about?"

"You know how my mind works." Yes, using her own logical and pragmatic thought processes was a perfect bypass, here! "I couldn't help wondering what if that  _did_  happen? Yes, I'd be relieved if the Resistance could wipe that facility from the face of the earth . . . but then I started thinking."

"Oh, dammit, here we go."

Her expression soured, but she forced herself to continue. "Voldemort is using you and the other Death Eaters as enforcers. If the Resistance were ever to make a move on Umbridge Home, you'd likely be sent in to defend that wretched place. I don't know how I feel about that."

Thorfinn's entire frame tensed as her words settled over him. Defending a place like that? A place where what happened to Reina—and  _worse_ —was done to those witches repeatedly?

He forced a hard gulp down his throat before inhaling sharply. "I'd sooner spark the fire charm to burn that place to  _ash_  than defend it."

The sheer wrath in his voice from the topic set her at ease—not that she ever thought she'd find comfort in Thorfinn Rowle's anger, but the world  _had_ become a strange place. 'But you'd be in danger from Voldemort if you didn't do as you were told, wouldn't you?"

Sighing, he shook his head in thought. For the chance to see it ended, he'd gladly hand himself over for punishment. But he couldn't risk where that would leave Hermione, if that punishment was his death.

"There are so many things that happen in chaotic encounters, as I imagine something like that would be." He shrugged against her. "No one who matters would notice if my wand strikes always landed a few,  _scant_  millimeters to the left of my targets, now would they?"

A content grin curved her lips as she closed her eyes, the thudding of his heart steady beneath her ear. "You are a clever one, aren't you?"

He chuckled, dropping another kiss to the top of her head. "Someone's got to keep up with you, haven't they?"

* * *

At the sound of the doorbell, Hermione broke the kiss, pulling back to scowl at Thorfinn.

With a sigh and a roll of his eyes, he scooped her out of his lap and set her on her feet. "Don't look at me like that," he said with a shake of his head as he stood to lead the way out of the kitchen. "It's not _my_  fault other people have terrible timing."

"I'm giving you that look, as it's not my  _coworkers_  always interrupting us. And besides, no one told you to start snogging me during dinner."

"Not my fault you looked particularly enticing with that spot of cream on your lip."

She uttered a scoffing sound and slapped his arm, but managed to get her features schooled by the time he pulled open the the front doors. A . . . . _Huh_.

A near-panicked looking Rabastan Lestrange stood there. Hermione thought from the unglazed eyes, he was probably sober, again. That was refreshing.

"Pardon the intrusion. I just need someplace to hide for a few hours."

As he spoke, she noticed the other dark-haired wizard standing behind him on the porch. "Dolohov?" She stood on her toes, trying to get a better look around the three tall men blocking much of her view. "Tell me the Carrows aren't out there, somewhere."

"Good Lord,  _no_ ," the pair answered in unison, prompting Hermione and Thorfinn to exchange a quick look.

Thorfinn stepped aside and waved them in.

"If anything," Rabastan said as he entered and made a bee-line for the drawing room, "it's the Carrows are what we're hiding out from."

Antonin followed, his shoulders twitching in what looked like a shudder from where Hermione trailed along behind them. "Well,  _one_ Carrow, in particular."

She frowned as they settled down and Thorfinn fetched a bottle and glasses. "Told you you shouldn't have done that at the funeral," she said to Antonin in a hissed whisper.

In the otherwise quiet room, Rabastan heard her. "What did I miss?"

"Mr. Dolohov thought it would be  _fun_  to sass Alecto at the funeral by cozying up to me."

After waiting patiently for his glass to be filled, he took a long swig. Turning to face Antonin, he spoke through clenched teeth. " _That_  is why we've had to put up with this?"

Thorfinn sat and pulled Hermione onto his knee—their now customary seating arrangement for drinking with company. "Put up with what, exactly?" He couldn't help the chuckle in his voice as he asked—this had to be good.

Antonin squared his jaw, taking a sip before he answered. "Well, as you know, I am a guest in Rabastan's home while I look for a residence of my own. Ever since the funeral . . . . Alecto has seen fit to invite herself to Lestrange Manor with an almost alarming frequency."

"She keeps angling for time alone with Antonin. Poor mad cow can't take a hint," Rabastan said, muttering into his glass.

"Short of throwing her out the front door on her arse, I don't see how I can make it  _any_ clearer." Antonin frowned as he shook his head.

"You could always tell her about whatever little thing it is you've got going away from prying eyes, that might deter her."

Hermione's ears perked up at the gossip—she actually missed listening to the other girls prattle on during meals at Hogwarts, now. "You're involved with someone, Mr. Dolohov?"

"No," he said, his eyes rolling so hard the lids fluttered. "He  _thinks_ I am."

"Even if you're not, you could still _tell_  her you are. For fuck's sake, man, I'm losing my mind with her constant, unannounced little pop-ins."

"You? I keep worrying I'll wake to find her standing over my bed."

"Has she given you reason to think she would?"

Antonin sighed and, as he had upon first entering the house, shuddered visibly. "I have tried retiring early during her visits to prompt her to leave. She excuses herself to the bathroom and finds me. I've changed rooms three bloody times!"

Hermione and Thorfinn exchanged another glance. The clearly exasperated tone was something that seemed  _very_ out of place coming from Antonin Dolohov. Alecto Carrow had the poor man at his wit's end.

Hermione hid her mouth behind her glass as she offered, "You might want to rethink that whole throwing her out on her arse option."

Rabastan snickered. "Tragic creature has herself believing he's playing hard to get. And I've had to deal with this rubbish while finalizing everything for this weekend. Half of Wizarding Britain will be in attendance, and I've got this simpering, mad-eyed witch skulking about the corridors. Worse, when she comes by and he's not there, she invites herself to wait for him, and I'm too bloody busy to waste my time trying to get her to leave."

As Rabastan drained his glass and reached for the bottle to refill it, she was reminded that he was actually not so awful when he was  _not_ pissed. If she was going to keep the evening from taking any regrettable turns, she would have to act preemptively.

"You know what?" she said, easing herself off Thorfinn's knee and setting down her glass. "We had just been about to have coffee and dessert when you arrived. Seems a shame to waste it. I'll go set that up for the four of us, shall I?"

As she turned to leave, Thorfinn slid a hand around her wrist and pulled her down to whisper in her ear. "I do hope you're aware that those biscuits you made are _not_  the dessert I had in mind?"

"Oh, I know," she said in a low voice, humor edging her tone.

She slipped away from him and started from the room.

"Let me assist you."

Hermione paused in the doorway, glancing back over her shoulder to see Antonin popping up from his seat. "Oh, okay, then. Thank you."

As the Russian wizard followed her out, she heard Rabastan grousing. "Oh, sure. First it was Lucius, now Antonin. I swear, you let everyone but me be alone with your pet."

"Not  _everyone_." Thorfinn didn't need to mention MacNair by name for them to all know perfectly well who he meant. "But, as I mentioned in regard to Lucius, unlike  _you_ , I trust Antonin to return her in the same condition she leaves in."

The sound of Rabastan's responding chuckle trailed them through the house. Only when they were in the kitchen did she relax, letting herself drop into a chair.

"I'll see to the coffee then, shall I?" Antonin asked, trying not to laugh at the witch's change in demeanor.

"Actually, that would be nice."

He did laugh, then, shaking his head. Taking off his cloak, he draped it over the chair beside Hermione's and started puttering about the kitchen.

"I don't know why Rabastan thinks telling Alecto you're involved with someone will be enough to deter her. The woman is stalking you, and I'd be a little concerned from my safety, were I you."

Heaving a sigh, he shrugged. "She's completely deluded, but her loyalties are strangely pure. She'd burn the whole world before she'd hurt me."

"That would be commendable, if extenuating circumstances didn't make it terrifying."

He chuckled as he set the coffee to brew.

"Doesn't answer the question, though. If she's that batshit mad, why would something so simple deter her affections?"

Antonin turned to face her, leaning his hips back against the counter as he folded his arms across his chest. "To be fair, as far as my fellow Death Eaters are concerned, I've never shown  _any_  interest in relationships, at all. Which, to her, meant I was available, I suppose. It's logical to assume that if she thought that _wasn't_  the case, she might finally just . . . go the fuck away!"

The way he finished in a quiet shout of irritation as he pulled over a chair and collapsed into it made the witch across from him explode in laughter.

As she got her mirth under control, she couldn't help inquiring, "Is it because you just don't have interest in relationships, or . . . ?"

Antonin tipped his head to one side a little as he regarded her. How odd that he should be discussing matters of the heart with her. Of course, he'd still tear anyone who tried to harm her limb-from-limb, but now it was for a different reason than what it once was.

Once, the very thought of being this close to her would've set his pulse thudding hard in his veins, but now . . . . Now he saw before him a friend.

He didn't have terribly many of those.

"It just was never as important as the work I had to do. There was never room, or time, or . . . ." He left off with a shrug.

This was an interesting conversation. Thorfinn might have to come fetch them, she thought as she stood to retrieve the tray of biscuits she'd set aside to cool shortly before dinner.

Sitting back down, she picked one up to nibble at it thoughtfully. "So, if there is no witch in your life, so to speak, why not just tell Alecto there is to see if it gets her off your back?"

At that, he dropped his gaze into his hands and shrugged. "I don't know, really. I haven't thought—"

"Oh my God, you  _do_  have someone!"

His eyes shooting wide, he returned his attention to her. "How— _how_  do women do that?"

Hermione's shoulders drooped. She was staring at him as though he'd just blabbered at her in Russian and not realized. "Because the only reason  _not_  to tell Alecto you're in a relationship is if you are, in fact, in one."

Antonin's brow furrowed. Scooting his chair closer to the table, he propped his elbow on the table and dropped his chin into his palm. "I'm afraid you're going to have to step me through that logic, Hermione."

God, wizards were thick. No wonder witches seemed so sharp by comparison. "Okay. If you tell Alecto you're in a relationship, but you're not, there's no real danger. However, if you tell her, and you  _are_ , then she might pose a danger to your witch, were she to ever learn who that is. So, the obvious answer is you won't tell Alecto, because you're protecting said witch."

Frowning, he sat back, silent a moment before he stood from his chair and circled back to the coffee. "Sometimes I dislike how clever you are."

She giggled and nodded. "You and everyone I've ever met."

They were both quiet as he set to fixing the coffee. Hermione fiddled with the edge of the tray when a glinting in the light of the kitchen caught the corner of her eye.

Frowning, she turned her attention to it. A single strand of curling gold gleamed against the black of Antonin's discarded cloak.

She reached out, pulling the hair free of the fabric and examining it. So his witch was a blonde . . . . There were many blonde witches in the world, but she suddenly had a niggling feeling in the pit of her stomach.

After a moment of listening to be certain neither of the other wizards in the house was coming their way, she asked, "So, how's Reina?"

"Doing quite well, actually. She—" He turned on his heel in a slow, pained movement to look at Hermione.

Her brows inching up her forehead, she held up the strand between two fingers. "Might want to clean your cloak a bit more thoroughly next time you visit her, or Rabastan's elves might find the next one."

He cursed softly in Russian. "You  _can't_ tell anyone. Especially not Thorfinn, he'll want to go to her to see for himself she's all right."

She shook her head, irked that he felt that point needed explaining. "Of course I know that. I'm upset you didn't tell  _me_! I can keep secrets, you know. I  _knew_  I saw her at the funeral."

His jaw dropped. "She was at the funeral? That sneaky little minx, I told her not to go."

Hermione couldn't help but smile at the mix of irritation and affection in his voice. "So," she said, picking at her biscuit, again. "You and Reina?"

"We are just friends."

She knew that tone. "But . . . ?"

A half-grin curved his lips, slow and reluctant. " _Maybe_  there's something in the future for us."

She beamed, which only made the wizard chuckle at himself. It was nice to have someone, and her heart was warmed by the notion that perhaps Reina and Antonin had found that  _someone_  in each other.


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter Seventeen**

"Okay," Hermione called down from the top of the stairs, a bit nervous—it reminded her vaguely of her entrance to the Yule Ball. After all the buildup of making him wait to see the dress robes she'd chosen, she couldn't help but fret that he would be disappointed with the image she presented.

Biting her lip, she averted her eyes, unable to hold his gaze as she gathered her robes in her hands and started down the staircase.

Thorfinn didn't bother to hide the way his brows shot up, or how his jaw fell open as he watched her draw near. Though her golden-brown hair was not as he typically liked—loose and wild—there was a definite charm to the sleeked curls she pinned behind her ears to trail and sway around her shoulders and down her back. There was the faintest hint of color dusting her cheeks and her lips, thin lines of kohl edged her chestnut eyes, making them appear larger than usual.

Merlin, he hoped she didn't try to give him any pouty looks tonight, or he was done for.

And the dress robes she'd been so protective over . . . .

A sleeveless affair, showing off her rounded shoulders and a teasing hint of cleavage, the fabric was gathered at the top by a length of twisty black lace. That same lace trailed through the dress in a vine-like pattern, twisting and undulating down toward the hem.

The material was soft, glinting subtly under the light as she moved, possibly silk or satin, and the colors—a soft, powdery blue, silvery white, and a deep pinkish-purple—was added with charmed dyes, from how the they swirled and alternated in slow, shifting waves, as though the hues were dancing. Her locator charm necklace, with its thick silver chain and purple-red stone was actually the perfect compliment.

He drew a breath and let it out slowly. It was painfully obvious how nervous she was, and he hated when Hermione was nervous.

"Do I want to know how much I spent on that?"

Her eyes narrowing as she at last lifted her gaze to his, she made a small scoffing sound in the back of her throat—if not for the fact that he'd had yet to school his features from his initial response, she might take him seriously. Reaching the foot of the stairs, she dropped the fabric to swat him on the shoulder.

Despite the gesture, he chuckled and she couldn't help a grin.

"Thorfinn, honestly. What do you think?"

Crooking a finger under her chin, he tilted her head back. Holding her gaze as he lowered his mouth to hers, he spoke with his lips brushing over hers. "I think we'll be sneaking off for many  _breaths_ , Princess."

She allowed a chaste but lingering kiss before she pulled back again to look at him. Once more her eyes narrowed.

His brow furrowing, he blinked. "What?"

"Your hair. I'm not sure I like it tied back like that."

Straightening, he reached a hand back to touch the leather string he'd used to gather his hair at the nape of his neck. "What's wrong with it? I was trying for a more civilized look than  _lumbering Viking_."

Folding her arms under her breasts—accentuating the line of cleavage, though he was trying very hard not to notice, or they'd never get out the door—she said, "But I _like_ your lumbering Viking look." Though the neat ponytail certainly did fit well with his perfectly cut charcoal grey robes. trimmed with fine black silk, she was sure he'd look  _just_  as nice with is golden locks loose about his shoulders.

He smirked. "You know I prefer your just-shagged look, but I didn't moan about that, now did I?"

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Fair point. Okay, let's get this night over with."

"Hey," he said, bringing those large hands of his up to cup her shoulders in a gentle grip. "I meant it. Whenever you need, we'll make up some excuse to slip away from everyone so you can take some time, all right?"

She nodded. "I know you did. It's just hard pretending that doing anything that _celebrates_ this day doesn't hurt."

Gathering her into his arms, he dropped a kiss down on the top of her head. "If you need distracting, I'm your wizard."

She snickered against his chest, in spite of herself. "Again, I know."

Thorfinn continued in his way, cracking jokes and alluding to bedroom activities he hoped might take place in some quiet corner of the very public party, as he retrieved her leash. Even as he wise-cracked and chuckled, he could not meet her gaze as he secured the ruby collar around her throat.

He wasn't certain which one of them hated  _that_  particular aspect of their life more.

* * *

Arriving at Lestrange Manor, they were greeted at the gates by their boisterous—and much to Hermione's relief, indeed currently sober—host.

"There you two are! The celebration's already underway!" As Rabastan stepped closer, his gaze swept over Hermione. He blinked hard a few times before a grin curved his lips. "Well, never mind. Pretty sure I can understand the reason for your delay."

She couldn't help a laugh at that. The man had it in him to be quite charming when he wasn't drunk enough to automatically assume every woman in his vicinity wanted his hands on them.

"The answer's still no, Rabastan," Thorfinn said with a tight grin as he gestured for the other wizard to start back through the gates.

With a roll of his eyes, Rabastan turned around and started leading them toward the festivities. "You're so unfair. I  _did_  just make the woman laugh."

Folding her lips inward on another  _offending_  giggle, she exchanged a glance with Thorfinn.

Thorfinn nodded, trying to hold in a chuckle of his own. "I don't quite recall us having a playtime in exchange for laughter agreement."

"Merlin's beard, you're so boring," the Lestrange heir said with a sigh and a shake of his head.

Through his glorious home he led them, past groups of witches and wizards chatting, sipping champagne, and nibbling on the most delectable looking hors d'oeuvres. Though some did stop what they were doing to stare at the former Undesirable being toted along on a bejeweled leash, not many of them bothered to actually pay much mind. That this gave little break to the mingling sounds of voices, tinkling glasses, and music from instruments charmed to play on their own helped Hermione to ignore the unwanted attention.

They walked through a set of glass-paned double doors and out into the breathtaking gardens of the Lestrange Manor grounds. Though, as Hermione took in her new surroundings, the sight beyond the even larger group of attendees lounging in the lush and manicured greenery made her stop short.

Noticing the way she seemed to edge behind him, Thorfinn stopped, as well. "Hermione?"

"Sorry," she said with a lift of her chin in the direction of the cloud of nightmarish pastels that was drifting through the crowd as it skirted the boundary of a rather impressive-looking hedge maze. "Just . . . Umbridge."

The way his features pinched in disgust at the mention of that vile woman's name made his witch feel better. "Don't worry, she can't do anything to you here."

"You've no idea how sneaky and conniving that fat, toady bitch can be."

Thorfinn wasn't certain which part was more the cause of the boisterous chuckle that boomed out of him—her choice of words, or the unveiled venom in her tone.

Rabastan came back, apparently just realizing he'd lost his pair of tag-alongs. "Well, c'mon."

Hermione nodded and fell into step beside Thorfinn, once more. "Is, um . . . is the Dark Lord in attendance? You said he might be here." She really didn't want to ask, but she didn't want another unpleasant surprise.

She also didn't want to call Voldemort by that stupid title, but in a party of Dark wizards and witches and loyal Death Eaters at every turn, she didn't want to risk being overheard addressing him as anything else.

His shoulders drooping ever so slightly, Rabastan played off his disappointment with a dismissive wave of his hands. "Unfortunately, no—though, I can't honestly imagine someone in your position is displeased by that answer—our Lord is far too busy with much more pressing matters to get away for even a single night."

Hermione let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding as he continued leading them toward a lavishly set table, covered in gleaming silver trays, delicate crystal flutes, and candelabras, the flames on which were enchanted to shift colors. She felt a little giddy—odd, given the occasion, she was aware—that the hues of her dress seemed to alternate in time with the shifting of the candlelight's color.

"Thorfinn, I know social gatherings aren't typically your 'thing', so I thought I would put you in company of those who won't make you want to throw things, or set my home ablaze."

The golden-haired wizard scowled as Hermione covered a laugh with her hand.

A house elf appeared at Rabastan's elbow, tugging at his sleeve. Frowning, he leaned down to listen to the little creature amid the din of the party.

Straightening up, he nodded to them, both. "Pardon me, I must attend to something. Shouldn't be a few moments."

His promise that he'd return to them, despite the many guests he had, made her think that perhaps Sober-Rabastan wasn't as thrilled with a guest list that was probably compiled by Drunk-Rabastan. But in that very odd and proper way of pure-bloods, he'd probably felt obligated to invite every single person he'd added to the list while in one of his stupors.

As he walked away, Hermione noticed the silvery-blond gleam of Lucius Malfoy's hair not far from them. Presumably, he—with Isla and Antonin not far from him—was one of the people their host'd deemed not likely to set off one of Thorfinn's tantrums. At the same moment, Lucius spotted her, as well, speaking over his shoulder to the other two before making his way to them. The pair followed only a few paces behind him.

After an exchange of greetings, Lucius turned toward the table, retrieving two flutes and holding them out to the newly-arrived guests. Hermione accepted so eagerly that it made everyone in their little gathering laugh as she drained half the glass in a series of demure sips. Thorfinn was much more paced in his consumption, but she knew that with the large gulps he always took and the quality of the champagne, it was likely they'd both be stumbling home.

If Hermione didn't know any better, she would think it was planned—the way Isla swept over to engage Thorfinn in discussion, calling Antonin to join in as Lucius stepped just a bit closer to her in the guise of examining the nearest tray of nibbles on the table just seemed  _too_  perfectly smooth and timed. Was it possible Isla, as Lucius' god daughter, was aware of Lucius' role in the Resistance?

Hermione wanted to smack herself from the impossibly stupid question. Of course, it was possible! If anything, it would make more sense that she was aware of precisely what was happening, so that he could more adequately protect her from any potential fallout due to his participation in the organization. That made it  _entirely_  likely that he might have mentioned to her that he needed a word with Hermione regarding his more secretive line of work.

"Well?" Lucius asked, his voice running just beneath the nearby conversation.

Hiding her mouth behind her glass, she relayed to him the answer Thorfinn had given her when she'd asked him about a _hypothetical_  assault on Umbridge Home.

A thoughtful frown gracing his lips, he nodded. "That is good news. I'll pass word along. This will stop any fatal shots from striking him." He paused, his brows twitching as he apparently made some mental calculations. "Well, purposefully."

Hermione held in a sigh. She knew it would be suspicious if Thorfinn ended up in the thick of combat and walked away without a scratch, and she did trust those whom she knew in the Resistance to have a steady wand-hand. She simply didn't like the idea that he might be injured even if he was technically assisting the _right_  side.

"Understood."


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter Eighteen**

"I don't think she's stalking you."

Hermione jumped at Thorfinn's whispered voice in her ear. It was nearly instinctive how she relaxed with him standing so close behind her. She had to remind herself that they were in  _very_ public setting, and so sinking back against him—which she very much wanted to do, but already knew would prompt him to drape his arms around her—would _not_  be a wise move, just now. It would be far too loving a gesture to  _not_  raise eyebrows.

"No, I know," she said over her shoulder, her words equally low and her gaze still following the pastel toad as the creature flitted through the crowd. "I just keep feeling like the moment I take my eyes off her, she'll suddenly pop up in front of me, or something."

"Okay." He slid his hand around her elbow and turned her to look at him—he'd sooner hex himself than use her leash to maneuver her. Sparing a moment to replace her emptied flute of champagne with a full one from a nearby tray, he then asked, "What did you do to that woman?"

Hermione arched a brow. "I assume you're applying the word  _woman_  loosely?"

Thorfinn snorted a quiet chuckle. "Of course."

Taking a long sip of her champagne, she nodded to herself. "All right." She paused, flicking her gaze about; Lucius, Antonin, and Isla were mingling, though poor Antonin looked as though he'd rather be anywhere else in the world, making Isla's attempts to involve him in discussions obvious, even from a distance.

Clearing her throat, Hermione drew a deep breath and let it out slowly before she started. "At the end of my fifth year, when Umbridge was headmistress of the school, we were trying to leave Hogwarts for . . . well, for reasons," she said, frowning—she nearly started talking about Harry and Sirius, and she didn't think she could manage discussing them today of _all_  days. "I came up with a  _notably_ less-than-foolproof plan to sidetrack her, but it was the best I could come up with in a pinch."

"You're stalling."

She frowned. "No, I'm setting the scene, now hush."

Thorfinn bit back a grin.

"I lured her into the Forbidden Forest, where she was . . . promptly dragged away by a herd of angry centaurs."

His eyes widened. "You got her kidnapped by centaurs?"

Her shoulders drooped. "Not  _intentionally_. I had thought to lead her out to Grawp . . . Hagrid's younger half-brother. Half-brother, but full giant. He's the one who took me away from the battle."

Nodding, Thorfinn stroked his beard in a thoughtful gesture. "Yes, I think we all remember that,  _vividly_. He was never caught, you know."

A little spark of joy burnt in Hermione's chest. She'd tried for so long not to think what fate might've befallen the young giant—he was really no more than a child, after all.

"Anyway," she said, giving her head a clearing shake, "Grawp was protective of me, and I thought that if I brought her out there, and he saw how she was treating me—" Really, she knew she should've said _us_ , but she was still straining to keep Harry's name out of the discussion—"he would snatch her up and take her wherever I asked. But he wasn't there . . . the centaurs happening upon us was only lucky timing."

"Not for her."

Hermione uttered a derisive laugh. "No, um, no. Not for her. But . . . that's not the worst of it. I knew—I  _knew_ —what centaurs do to female captives. I mean, one of them was even a friend, but I knew what would happen to her. I made certain to study the creatures we shared the Hogwarts grounds with . . . but when she was being carried away, I didn't speak up. I didn't even try. What happened to her at their hands was _my_  fault."

His brows climbing upward, he reached out, claiming a fresh glass of champagne for himself and taking a huge swig that emptied more than half its contents before he shook his head. "You'd figure with that experience, opening that horrible Home would be the last thing she'd do."

"That is just an indicator of what a vile and despicable being she truly is."

Thorfinn held her gaze, sincerity clear in his blue eyes as he asked in a murmur, "Would you like me to kill her for you?"

"Oh." She couldn't help the smile curving her lips as a bit more of that uncomfortable tension drained out of her. "That is  _the_ sweetest thing a servant of the Dark Lord has ever asked me."

He arched a brow, tipping his flute toward her and then taking a sip. "That's not a no."

"I do appreciate the offer—you really have no idea how much I appreciate it—but I want to do that myself."

"Mm." Thorfinn smirked. "There's a bit of a darkness in you, you know."

Hermione snickered. "Be a good boy, and maybe I'll tell you how Snape's robes  _really_  caught fire during that Quidditch match in your seventh year."

"Oh?" He tapped his glass against hers in a mini-toast. "You've got yourself a deal, Princess."

Things were peaceful for all of two minutes before Hermione noticed Rabastan walking back through the gardens, Alecto on his arm and his cheeks a touch pink . . . . Which could only mean, for whatever reason, he'd broken his own rule about imbibing more than a minimal helping of alcohol while playing host. And, as Hermione noticed what was likely to be an unpleasantly flirty version of Rabastan Lestrange slowly making his way in their direction, Thorfinn noticed Walden MacNair had popped up at Lucius' shoulder.

Isla, looking woefully uncomfortable after greeting the new arrival, seemed to dart around Antonin, like she was trying to hide in his shadow.

Hermione turned, taking in the sight that was causing Thorfinn to emit a low, rumbling growl, like a some caged werewolf.

"Dear God, help us," she said, an unpleasant twinge of anxiety curling through the pit of her stomach.

Nodding, Thorfinn tore his gaze from the vile older wizard and met her gaze. "Time to slip away for some fresh air, do you think?"

Hermione set down her glass before taking his from his fingers to set it aside, as well. "Thought you'd never ask."

Glancing over his shoulder as they went, Thorfinn guided her along. Past oblivious party guests, rose-woven trellises, and the odd garden wall here and there, they went, making certain no one of importance took note of their absence, or the direction in which they'd disappeared.

When they'd made it far enough that the music and chatter of mingling guests was a distant murmur, she breathed an audible sigh of relief. "Thank you. I don't think I could've dealt with _both_  of them. Did you notice? Rabastan looked like he'd been drinking. Why would he do that tonight?"

Thorfinn turned, leaning his shoulders back against the nearby wall of the manor house. "If I had to guess, that wasn't by choice."

Hermione's brow furrowed. "What?"

"Alecto was with him, yeah?"

She nodded.

"My guess, then, was she slipped something in his drink to turn him into the letch you so hate. She probably saw you, and then saw Antonin talking to Lucius' goddaughter, and did the first thing she could think of to throw a wrench in the works . . . which would be to throw an inebriated Rabastan at the two of you."

"Never stops being a charming delight, that woman."

Thorfinn chuckled and shook his head. "Although . . . ."

She frowned at the way his voice trailed off. "Although?"

Pursing his lips, he let out a sigh through his nostrils and slipped his arms around her waist to pull her to him. "If not for that charming delight of a woman, you and I might not be standing here like this. At the War's end . . . she was the one who suggested I ask for you as a war prize."

"Why would she care?" The press of his body, so warm against hers, was nice, even in their current setting, and she bit her lip to hold in a tiny, ecstatic breath.

Thorfinn frowned before he answered. Perhaps he shouldn't tell her this, but then she and Dolohov were friends, now, and the dark-haired wizard had seemed to have moved on from any less-than-platonic thoughts toward her. "She thought Dolohov might ask for you, and you already know her feelings on  _any_  witch besides her getting near him."

Hermione nodded, digesting that. So there  _was_  something to the way Dolohov used to look at her. Whatever it was clearly was no longer a factor between them, but if not for that . . . .

"I like to think," she said, lifting her hands to curl her fingers into the lapels of his dress robes, "that it all worked out for the best."

"Really?" He bit his lip as he lowered his gaze to look at her hands. "No second thoughts now that you realize things might've been very different?"

"Seeing how things _did_  play out, I do think that there would've still been something between us, if we were in each other's lives in any  _real_ measure."

"That wasn't a no," he said, smirking.

Hermione's brow drew upward as she breathed out a quiet laugh. " _No_  second thoughts. I am perfectly content sharing my heart, and a bed, with  _you_ , Thorfinn Rowle."

His smirk widened a little—he knew that tone, he just had to push a  _little_  more. "Is that so?"

She mirrored his expression, accepting his unspoken challenge. "Would you like me to prove it?"

He feigned a scandalized gasp as she stood on her toes, bringing her mouth closer to his, and slid a hand from his label to dip  _inside_  his robes. "You mean to do this out  _here_? You dirty little beast, you."

"Only if  _you_  keep an eye out for unwanted voyeurs."

Thorfinn nodded, letting her pull him into a kiss as her fingers circled him.

After a few breathless minutes, he broke the kiss, speaking in a halting whisper, "I'm not going to be able to keep an eye out with you in my face like this, Princess."

"Fair enough," she said, ducking her head to drag her lips along his jaw and down his throat as she slowly inched lower against his body.

* * *

Rabastan blinked, giving his head a shake. Odd, he hadn't touched a drop of alcohol tonight, so why did he feel tipsy?

Clearing his throat, he turned a smile on Alecto, trying to continue his show as the charming and dutiful host and the mad cow would not relinquish her hold on his arm. "C'mon," he said, knowing he'd pay for it later as he made a beeline for Antonin as a means of distracting the witch.

And, predictably, the moment Antonin Dolohov noticed the pair nearing him, he squared his jaw and he blinked several times in rapid succession.

Yet, just as they reached Antonin and Lucius, Rabastan noticed Isla, who'd ducked behind her godfather, for some reason.

His arm finally freed from Alecto's grasp, he heard her say in an airy voice while she approached Antonin, "Oh, I see Thorfinn's skulked off somewhere with his little toy."

Whatever was wrong with him was obviously clouding his thoughts if he'd not noticed Hermione's absence.

But now, Isla was speaking, clearly trying to engage the other witch in the most banal of conversation to keep her at proverbial arm's length, "They've been gone a bit, actually. Given her status, and among the other guests present, I would be worried."

At that, Rabastan and Antonin exchanged a glance. Walden MacNair was nowhere to be seen, either.

Knowing what he was capable of, and given his antics at the dinner party . . . .

"We'll be right back," Rabastan and Antonin said in unison. They broke off in opposite directions to search the grounds.

"Well," Lucius said, forcing a grin as he looked from Alecto, to Isla, and back. "Isn't this perfectly cozy?"

Alecto gave him a withering scowl, her plan to gain just a little alone time with Antonin having backfired before it could even take root. Isla covered her mouth with a delicate, lace-gloved hand, muffling a laugh.

* * *

Rabastan had followed some nods and vaguely waved hands. He found himself wrapping the exterior wall of the manor, but still within the boundary of the Lestrange family's property.

So far away, the sounds of the party had dulled, rendering the still night air around him nearly silent.  _Nearly._ Just a few, quiet steps beyond the bend in the wall, he heard a muffled groaning sound.

And then, he saw them.

In the dark of the night, they would've been hidden within the shadow of the house, if not for Hermione's bright dress robes.

Rabastan dared not venture any closer, but he couldn't quite pry himself from the sight to return to the party just yet, either. The witch was on her knees before Thorfinn, the length of her dress carefully pulled out from beneath her so as not to stain the pretty, enchanted material with grass and dirt.

Though he could not quite see the action clearly, as Thorfinn's dress robes blocked the full view of her face, the way her head moved left no room for misinterpreting what she was doing down there.

Thorfinn's head lolled against the wall at his back as he reached one hand down to grip into hair. His other arm flailed slightly, seeming to seek purchase, but then the chain of her leash wrapped his fingers, and he closed his hand around it. The action inadvertently pulled at her collar.

Rabastan's breath caught in his throat. There was no unhearing the whimper that worked its way from the back of her throat; no unseeing the way she quickened her pace.

So, she  _enjoyed_  being leashed like that?  _That_  was something worth knowing.

Thorfinn choked out a loud, grunting breath, then, and Rabastan finally managed to peel himself away from the scene. He wasn't a _total_  pig—he'd leave the other wizard to come, unobserved.

He moved along in careful silence, not wanting to alert them to his exit any more than he'd alerted them to his presence. Back through the gardens and toward the main body of the gathering he'd gone when a scream split the night.

Torn from his inexplicable stupor, Rabastan took off at a run in the direction of the sharp sound.

* * *

Thorfinn caught his breath as he helped Hermione to her feet. The witch was beaming as she righted his dress robes.

"What's that look for?"

She smirked. "You keep letting things like this happen, I might just start evening up our tallies."

"I told you I'm never letting that happen," he said with a chuckle.

Giggling, she gave a sideways nod as they started a leisurely stroll back toward the party. "Oh, I don't know about that. Though, we're never going to do any such thing in public again. Didn't appreciate you tugging on my leash like that, thank you very much.  _And_  you weren't keeping looking out."

" _That_  was an accident. And how do you know I wasn't?"

She smirked, unable to help the blush that flooded her cheeks, despite what she'd just done with him. "I . . . might've glanced upward a few times to catch the look on your face."

"Oh, did you, now?"

They were just entering the gardens when they heard a scream.

Exchanging a glance, Thorfinn grabbed Hermione's hand and tugged her along as he ran toward the commotion. She stumbled in her effort to keep up with his longer strides, more than grateful when he finally stopped.

Even before she could see what was going on, or where they stood, she doubled over, bracing her hands on her knees in an unladylike fashion as she caught her breath.

Isla immediately drew close to her side, her gaze fixed out toward whatever held everyone's attention. As the other witch assisted her, gently, to stand properly, Thorfinn held a protective arm out before both of them.

They were all gathered into the hedge maze, Rabastan, Antonin, Lucius, and the Carrows all stared at the ground. Or, more accurately, at the body crumpled on the ground.

Hermione swallowed hard as she recognized Walden MacNair, staring blankly up at the night sky as his fellow Death Eaters carried on a hushed discussion over him, oblivious to the crowd.

In a daze, Hermione continued watching the body . . . . Not as though she thought he might get back up, but in simple relief that a vile man like him had breathed his last.

She bit her lip to hold in a smirk.  _One less soldier for Voldemort's cause_.


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter Nineteen**

In a way, Hermione was relieved she was in no position to carry a wand in public. She was the only one automatically excluded from the suspect pool. However, as her testimony would not have any weight, whatsoever—and she was not about to share what she had been up to with her  _captor_ at the time the murder must've been committed—Thorfinn was expected to turn over his wand as part of the investigation into Walden MacNair's death.

What Hermione found strange was that his fellow Death Eaters—with the exception of Lucius Malfoy, as he was in full-view of a number of other party guests the entire evening—were also considered prime suspects. None of them had alibis, concrete or otherwise, for the moments before MacNair's body was discovered.

She knew Thorfinn hated MacNair for hurting her, snatching Reina that night, and generally being one of the most foul human beings ever to crawl the earth. However, she could not fathom why his name was at the  _very_  top of the suspect list.

The wands of everyone in the vicinity of the hedge maze had been collected as a matter of course. Though, there was a bit of a fuss about Isla not having hers. Something about her magic acting up recently that made her reluctant to carry it in a public setting—she did not wish it to go off and accidentally harm anyone at the party, she'd insisted. Lucius confirmed this, and as she had never even met MacNair, her apparent lack of motive compounded the logic behind her exclusion from the suspect list.

The Death Eaters present closed ranks, but before they could discuss the matter at length—a conversation Hermione knew she did not want to hear, but could not escape, due to her dreaded leash—a hush fell over the gathering. Though she could not see what was happening, as Thorfinn immediately shoved her behind him, she could only imagine that whatever it was, it was  _not_ good.

"I am . . . displeased to find myself drawn away from more important matters."

At the sound of Voldemort's rasping voice, Hermione felt the fine hairs on the back of her neck stand on end, and her stomach roiled. She'd never been this close to him, before, and certainly never had the displeasure of being anywhere near him while she was so completely defenseless.

That was what this awful feeling was—she was sick with fear.

"Why was I summoned? Answer  _fast_."

By the sound of his voice, Hermione could tell he'd turned to face the tight circle of his followers, crowded around their fallen brother-in-arms. Hidden from view, still, she gripped her hands into the back of Thorfinn's dress robes, moving with him as the Death Eaters parted, on reluctant steps, to reveal the body.

Voldemort drew close—she could hear his dragging footfalls, all but scraping the ground with each movement. " _Who_  has done this?!"

Rabastan bowed his head as he stammered, trying not to sound inebriated in front of his Lord, "We do not know, My Lord. I have had wands collected from anyone who—"

"Tell me, Thorfinn," the serpentine wizard said, cutting off the Lestrange heir as though unaware the other man was speaking, at all. "This is not your doing, is it? Revenge for carrying out my order, perhaps?"

In front of her, Hermione watched as Thorfinn bowed his head, as well. "No, My Lord, of course not!"

"Hmm. I am not certain I can take your words at face value. Perhaps a dip into your mind will show me the truth of this."

"That won't be necessary, My Lord."

Hermione snapped her head in Rabastan's direction. What the hell was he up to?

"And why is that?"

"I noticed Thorfinn taking his little pet off in the opposite direction sometime earlier. I dare say, I believe they were probably indisposed when the murder took place."

Hermione could hear the rumbling of an angry breath from Thorfinn. She quite understood what he was probably feeling—she wasn't certain if she wanted to hug Rabastan for trying to clear Thorfinn of suspicion, or kick him right in his bits for putting them on the spot this way.

"Oh?"

Her skin crawled at the intrigue in the vile creature's tone. On a _very_  dim bright side, however, she noted that Alecto—the only one whose face she could clearly see from her place behind Thorfinn—looked pleased. Hermione imagined the other woman was ecstatic at the thought of some public admittance of sordid acts between her and Thorfinn, as it would deter the interest she assumed Antonin had in the younger witch.

"Tell me, Thorfinn, where  _is_ your pet Mudblood that she might confirm Rabastan's words?" There was a pause, during which she imagined Voldemort was making a show of looking around. The squelching, rattling cough that escaped the Dark Lord at that moment was rather unpleasant to her ears. "I was assured you were adhering to my ruling that she must be leashed in public, yet I do not see her with you."

Keeping his expression hard—as though he was more put off by the accusation that he was disobeying said rule than at having to trot out his so-called pet—Thorfinn raised his arm, revealing the cuff that circled his wrist. Winding the length of chain around his hand, he tugged Hermione out from behind him.

"I do believe she ducked behind me out of her fear of you, My Lord," Thorfinn said, his tone apologetic. "Forgive me for being distracted by the circumstances."

Hermione kept her head bowed as she was pushed before Voldemort. She swallowed hard, darting her gaze about the ground beneath their feet.

"And fear me she should."

A bony hand entered her field of vision. His fingers curled around the chain closest to her throat and yanked upward. The shock of the movement forced Hermione to lift her chin. She refused to meet his gaze, however, glancing around to look everywhere  _but_ at him.

"Tell me, Mudblood . . . is what Rabastan says true?"

"It is."

Another cough tore out of him, and he turned his head with it. She knew it was more out of habit than caring if he hacked his foul breath in her face, but she stole the opportunity to get a quick look at him, up close.

Hermione was so startled by the sight that greeted her that she nearly missed the chance to revert her gaze before he turned his attention back to her. He . . . he looked like a walking skeleton. His flesh seemed no more than a layer of wax dripped from a runny candle.

She understood in that moment the sound rattling out of him. Voldemort's coughs were just that—death rattles. Without his Horcruxes, and how many times he'd halved the remaining portions of his soul to create them, this  _thing_  standing before her was a husk with no soul left in it.

The Dark Lord Voldemort was already dead, he was just too stubborn to lie down and let the natural law do its work.

"And what, exactly,  _were_ you doing with your master while you were out of everyone's sight?"

Forcing a gulp down her throat, Hermione made a show of turning to look at Thorfinn for permission to answer. The rasping chuckle that tore out of Voldemort at the display told her she'd made the right decision in consulting her  _owner_  before answering.

Thorfinn nodded, keeping his mouth set in a grim line. He hated this public spectacle—he hated putting her through this—but he knew if the Dark Lord suspected for a moment that he cared at all for her, he'd lose her. And if Voldemort had  _any_  idea her presence in his follower's life made him question the Dark Lord?

Well, Thorfinn might as well grab the nearest wand and  _Avada_ her, and then himself, on the spot to avoid the horrific tortures that would await them, both.

"You may answer."

With another gulp, Hermione nodded. Turning her attention back to the thing before her, she tried to be delicate about the matter. "He had a  _need_ , and I was tending to it."

When it seemed Voldemort was having too much fun at her expense—she could simply tell he was going to ask for proof, or further details, for the sole sake of embarrassing her—she curled her fingers into the length of her dress robes, prepared to lift the hem, if necessary. "I could show the Dark Lord the grass stains on my knees, if  _that_  will settle the matter."

From the corner of her eye, she could see a smile curve his barely-existent lips. "I do not believe that is necessary, but your candor _is_  appreciated."

_I'll be damned,_  she thought in awe. There it was in Voldemort's tone. He hated her, despised everything about someone like her, and yet . . . there was a grudging respect for her in his voice.

Then, she heard the worst sound she ever could have imagined in that moment. Through the din of whispered voices feigning scandalized tones at the thought of the Death Eater using his pet in a public setting that way, she heard a familiar,  _dreaded_  tutting.

That wretched nightmare in pink stepped through the crowd to stand before them. Hermione wished she had the ability to force herself to vomit, right then—she'd love to cover the toad in a horrific shade of  _tonight's dinner, revisited_.

"My Lord," Dolores Umbridge said in her syrupy tone as she curtsied. "I do believe you should, perhaps, make her show you. I remember Miss Granger from my days as the Headmistress of Hogwarts. I can assure you the girl is quite the skilled liar."

"Takes one to know one." The words were out of Hermione's mouth before she could stop herself. She winced, aware of her misstep as Umbridge uttered a horrified gasp, but that was not why.

Thorfinn might be forced into disciplining her in front of all these people. There would be no way to fake that he'd made her pay later.

"How dare y—!"

"Now, now, Dolores."

Hermione wasn't sure who was more shocked at the Dark Lord cutting off the toad, the toad, Hermione, herself, or one of the assembled Death Eaters.

"This is quite the interesting discussion."

No one was surprised he enjoyed people being petty to one another, Hermione was sure. But she  _was_  surprised when he looked directly at her.

"What makes you call Miss Umbridge a liar, Mudblood?"

"My Lord!" Dolores stammered in anger, and apparently forgetting her place.

As quickly as she opened her mouth, Voldemort whipped his wand in her direction. Whatever she might say next fell on deaf ears, quite literally, as the toad found herself silenced. Worse, though, she raised her hands, her chubby fingers scraping at her throat . . . she was dragging in breath, but just barely.

Voldemort shielded another racking cough before returning his attention to Hermione. His bald brows arched in expectation as he awaited her answer.

"Other than violating about a hundred rules of conduct she pledged to uphold as the head of Hogwarts so that she might sate a twisted love of hurting children?" Hermione could not help herself, now that she was given the stage. Everyone suspected Umbridge was a foul creature, but they didn't  _know_  what this woman had done before being given freedom to open that terrible facility of hers.

She knew Voldemort couldn't care less about Dolores Umbridge's predilection for disciplining children in unnecessarily harsh ways, but _someone_  here would. People at this party, in that crowd, would care, and they would question what they thought of the toad.

"She is lying by omission," the younger witch hurried on, though, she would like to draw out her answer, leaving Umbridge to struggle for air a bit longer. "She doesn't want me to show you the proof of my words because she thinks I'm lying, she wants me to show you because she enjoys the thought of embarrassing me. She considers my current circumstances not enough recompense for what  _I_ did to  _her_."

Hermione could see Umbridge's face turn even redder than it already was from her fight to keep drawing breath. Oh, of course she hadn't told anyone what had happened to her! Her precious pride would not let her utter the words for fear they would never look at her the same way, and they both knew it.

For a moment, Hermione felt regret that she was so tempted to throw another woman's horrific experience out into the open like this. But then, she recalled . . . . . This  _woman_  had gone and opened a facility that visited that very same sort of horror on its prisoners, day in and day out. Dolores Umbridge's experience meant nothing to her, outside of the embarrassment it might bring her.

Indeed, it was a wonder the toad of a witch could even consider herself human.

Aware the elder witch was going to keel over if he did not let her breathe freely soon, Voldemort lowered his wand. He coughed out a laugh at the way she crumbled forward, gulping down lungfuls of air, gratefully.

"What  _did_ you do?"

Hermione was aware of Umbridge's wide, slightly bugged eyes snapping in her direction at the Dark Lord's question.

Swallowing hard, Hermione darted her gaze about. She hated this woman, hated her with every fiber of her being . . . . Wanted to murder her with her bare hands, so why was she so reluctant to voice this?

_Because I don't want to sink to_ her  _level._

Hermione could be seen as a pet, a toy, a whatever-they-thought-her-to-be among this crowd of upper crust pure-bloods living it up in Voldemort's Wizarding Britain . . . . And yet, she could still  _be_  better than Dolores Umbridge.

"I—"

"I'll  _kill_ you, you horrible child!"

Gasps and a few rumbled sounds of disbelief erupted from the assembled crowd as the toad drew her wand on an unarmed girl. Formerly an Undesirable, yes, but she was already on a leash, already broken in the public eye; she was the girl whose life had been reduced to being nothing more than a plaything to one of Voldemort's most loyal.

And the supposedly-upstanding Dolores Umbridge was so intimidated by what that unarmed, leashed, and broken girl might  _say_ , that she had just leveled a death threat at her.

His lips peeling back from his teeth in an expression of pure rage, Thorfinn stepped between them. Dolores looked horrified as the tip of her wand pressed into his sternum and he glanced from it, to her, his blue eyes fixed in a lethal glare.

Hermione remembered with an unpleasant jolt how fearsome Thorfinn Rowle was; how utterly terrified she'd once been of him. His reputation had been well-earned, as it seemed  _this_  side of him—this ferocious side he  _never_ showed around Hermione, anymore, so she'd nearly forgotten it existed—was a familiar sight to his brothers-in-arms.

The golden-haired wizard said through tightly clenched teeth, "You  _dare_  threaten to damage my property?!"

Forcing a gulp down her throat, Hermione dropped her gaze to the ground. She chewed at the inside of her lip to maintain her composure. Full-well she knew this was part of their act, part of the façade they had to maintain for the sake of her own bloody safety!

And yet, it still tore out her heart to hear him speak about her like this. She knew he  _hated_  it, too, and that only made it hurt more. But that she understood the necessity made the pain manageable.

"W—well, Mr. Rowle, I . . . ." Dolores' tone was pure terror as she stared up at the towering man. "I suggest you use that leash more wisely in the future to control her!"

"And I suggest you remember that she was being asked questions by the Dark Lord, and  _his_ inquiries far outweigh  _your_ embarrassment."

Hermione's stomach turned at the proud smile that curved Voldemort's lips at Thorfinn's words. That was when she realized it wasn't necessarily Hermione Granger's embarrassment he would have so relished, but  _anyone's_.

"Dolores, I believe it would be wise for you to depart for the evening . . . before I let young Thorfinn take payment for your transgression."

Hermione didn't need to look up, she could feel the toad's gaze land on her, absolutely angry enough to burn holes in her skull. There was a huffing breath, followed by hard, heavy, heeled footfalls stomping off.

"Rabastan, you will bring the collected wands to the castle. I will examine them, myself. Please make . . . ." Voldemort trailed off, leading into a fit of hacking coughs before he could continue. "Please see to it arrangements are made for MacNair."

Rabastan, recognizing that the Dark Lord was taking his leave, went down on bended knee. "Of course, My Lord," he said.

His fellow Death Eaters followed suit. Hermione was only grateful Thorfinn had slackened his hold on her leash earlier, as she was not tugged down with them. But she was not so stupid to think a show of fealty was not expected of her, so she bowed her head.

Voldemort, with no _actual_  words of parting, Disapparated.

Hermione jumped at a touch on her arm. She looked up to see a terrified Isla standing beside her.

"Are you okay?" the dark-haired witch asked in a whisper.

Nodding, Hermione only offered her a small grin as a sign of her gratitude. She was warmed by the other girl's concern, but she wanted to be anywhere _but_ here, now. She was still having trouble with the fact that this had all happened with a dead body on the ground behind them! Maybe that sort of thing was no big deal for pure-bloods?

She glanced about as the Death Eaters climbed to their feet. Antonin and Lucius each caught her gaze, clearly trying to assess an answer to the same question Isla had just posed. Hermione gave a quick, barely-perceptible nod in reply to them, both.

"I think we will be taking our leave, unless you have need of me?" Thorfinn said as he turned to face Rabastan.

The haze of inebriation had completely drained from the Lestrange heir's eyes, and Hermione was quite relieved for it. Whatever Alecto had been winding him up to do had never come to pass, but the mad-eyed witch was sated by the outcome, all the same.

Rabastan shook his head as he returned his attention to the fallen wizard. She could see the wheels turning in his head as he tried to understand who the culprit might be.

* * *

Just as the night of that terrible dinner party, Hermione was quiet as Thorfinn brought her home. As he led her up to the doors, and into the house.

She couldn't have spoken, if she'd wanted to. She was far too fixated on how it seemed that Rabastan was so puzzled by the question of who the murderer was _because_ it could not have been Thorfinn.

Exhaling a loud, rumbling breath, Thorfinn turned once he had the doors closed behind them. Gathering her into his arms he pulled her near, dropping his forehead to press lightly to hers.

"I am so sorry I had to talk about you that way."

Hermione let out an airy, exhausted laugh as she shook her head. Was that why he thought she'd been so quiet? "Oh, you lumbering Viking! I'm not upset about that."

Lifting his head, he met her gaze and arched a brow. "You're not?"

"I know it was necessary, I haven't forgotten that."

His blue eyes narrowed, he darted them about the room. "Then I certainly hope it's not for MacNair. That bastard deserved whatever did him in."

"I'm not upset he's dead," she said, assuring him with a nod. "But I know, now, that there's something you haven't told me."

There was nothing so telling as the way Thorfinn's face fell in that moment.

"You were the first person the other Death Eaters looked to as the murderer. Why?"

"Princess, don't—"

"I hate the feeling that you think there's something you can't tell me."

He scowled, disliking that she was trying to force it out of him. "You really don't want to know."

"I probably don't, but I'm not going to be able to let this go until I find out what it is, and you know that!"

At her easy display of self-awareness, he nearly laughed. And he would have, if not for the fact that he  _never_ wanted to speak on what had really happened.

"It's not just because he hurt me."

"Let it go."

Hermione mirrored his unpleasant expression. "Tell me."

"No."

"Thorfinn!"

_"No!"_  He all but ripped the cuff off his wrist. He was so careless and hurried in unfastening the collar around her neck, Hermione worried for a second he might injure her by accident.

"It's more than him hurting me, more than him snatching Reina!"

At the mention of Reina, Thorfinn's eyes filled with a strange mix of rage and remorse.

Hermione's shoulders drooped. For the first time, she hated that she could read him so easily. "Thorfinn?"

Gritting his teeth, he turned away from her. " _Please_  don't ask."

Swallowing hard, she closed her eyes, the sensation of tears welling burned behind the lids. "What did he do to Reina, Thorfinn?"

His broad shoulders slumping, he looked at her over his shoulder. Those blue eyes she so loved were filled with tears of their own.

And Hermione  _understood_. "Oh, God, no!"

With a heavy sigh, Thorfinn turned back to face her, fully. He blinked rapidly to clear his eyes as he reached for her. "Hermione—"

"It's my fault!"

_Just as Reina predicted_ , he thought. "No."

"It is! If I hadn't been so helpless, if I'd been able to stop him—"

"But you  _were_ and you _couldn't_ , and that was not your fault!"

He sounded so . . . angry and heartbroken. Hermione felt like she might genuinely burst into tears at his tone. "That was the  _real_ punishment for your failure, wasn't it?"

Thorfinn nodded, but it was a pained movement.

Hermione moved close, slipping her arms around him and dropping her head down against his chest. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"She made me promise not to. She said you'd blame yourself, and you did, you stubborn little twit."

Despite the tears welling anew, she snickered. But she sobered suddenly as she said, "I'm going to kill him."

"MacNair's already dead, if you'll recall."

Angling her head to look up at him, she pinched his side.

"Ow!  _Brat_."

She waited for him to meet her gaze before she explained, "No. I mean Voldemort. I am going to _kill_  him, Thorfinn."

His brows shot up. This was the same tone she'd used when she talked about killing Umbridge. Cold, precise, and terrifying.

When he didn't readily answer, she said, "I mean it."

Wrapping his arms around her, he rested his chin atop her head. "I believe you, Princess." He had no idea how she imagined she might get the opportunity, but he didn't doubt her words for a second.

They were both quiet for a moment. Hermione puzzled over the murder. A lot of people must've hated MacNair, but who would have the guts to murder him in a public setting like that?

Who would . . . ?

He'd hurt Reina in such a terrible way. She was connected with the Resistance, but Lucius was the only member there, and had been in plain view of other party guests the entire evening. And she was well aware of Thorfinn's location at the time of the murder. So, if it wasn't Thorfinn or Lucius, she could only think of one other person at tonight's gathering who'd want to make that vile elder wizard pay for what he'd done.

She just barely held in a gasp. No, no, that would've alerted Thorfinn to her sudden realization.

But then, after all that had happened, with knowing what Reina had _really_  been through . . . . Knowing he blamed his inability to protect his sister for her decision not to return home, that he blamed his own failure for what Voldemort had ordered, in the first place, she realized she  _needed_  to tell him what she knew.

Pulling back enough to look up at him, once more, Hermione said, "Thorfinn?"

"Princess?"

"I think I know who killed MacNair." When his brows shot up impossibly high on his forehead, but he remained silent, knowing she was not finished, she tacked on, "And I'm pretty sure I know why."


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter Twenty**

" _You_  and my sister?!"

Hermione winced at the sheer volume of Thorfinn's voice. Poor Antonin stood on the doorstep of the Rowle house, he'd not even made it into the foyer before his partner could no longer hold his tongue.

His first shock had been seeing the younger wizard without the trademark beard, of which he was typically so proud—the only other time he'd seen Thorfinn without it had been for his uncle's funeral. But . . . seeing as Thorfinn was bellowing at him over the one piece of information that was supposed to have been withheld from him, for all their sakes, Antonin felt that inquiring about missing facial hair could wait.

Hermione knew, even before she cracked open one eye and looked toward the door, that Antonin as peering at her over Thorfinn's shoulder. His expression exasperated, that dark gaze fixed on hers as he huffed out a sigh.

"You had one job," the Russian wizard said, as though a distinctly unhappy Thorfinn Rowle was not stationed between them. "Keep him from finding out. What part of that was difficult to understand, котенок?"

Her little, rounded shoulders slumped as she frowned. "With all he's been through? He _needed_  to know this. I couldn't keep it from him, anymore, I just couldn't!"

Thorfinn looked from one to the other, and back, again. "What did he just call you?"

She darted a glance at her Viking as she said with a distracted air, "It means kitten. And I'm sorry, Dolohov, I really am."

Thorfinn pressed his fingertips to his temples as he shook his head, his eyes squeezed shut. "Wait, wait. He's got a pet name for you? You gave her a pet name? Where was I when this happened? And, sweet Merlin,  _why_?"

Antonin arched a brow as he chewed at the inside of his lip. The meltdown Thorfinn seemed on the verge of having was actually a bit entertaining. "You just found out I'm responsible for putting Reina into hiding, yet you're worrying about a nickname? And here, I'd thought asking where your beard had gone would be trivializing things."

The witch cleared her throat uncomfortably as she waved her finger in the air to get Antonin's attention. "He shaved it off because he was so angry, he thought he might tear it out in a fit."

Eyes widening just a little, Antonin raised a protective hand to his chin, shielding his own beard.

Hermione bit her lip to hold in a laugh at his gesture. And, she could tell from the sudden, tensed hunching of Thorfinn's shoulders that he already knew her reaction to the scene.

"This isn't funny, Princess."

She tipped her head to one side and exhaled low. "It is a  _little_ funny. And, besides, with how tense everything is, we could all use a bit of a laugh."

Thorfinn turned to look at her over his shoulder, his features folding into a scowl.

Jumping in place a little, she said, "Oh! Right, but, um, that's not . . . not really why we asked you here."

His hand dropping to his side, Antonin arched a brow, his expression suddenly quite serious. He had a feeling he knew what the petite witch was thinking, and if she'd filled in Thorfinn about his connection to Reina, then Thorfinn was probably thinking the same thing.

Nodding, he stepped inside and closed the doors behind him. "All right. What is it?"

Thorfinn puffed out his cheeks as he exhaled, knowing that if Hermione had been correct, then Antonin Dolohov had just done the world a huge favor. Also, he supposed it would mean having to let go of his anger over the idea of the older wizard courting his sister—to put the matter politely, of course, and he wasn't about to think of it _any_ other way.

"Understand as I say this, we've  _no_  intention of turning you in, if it's true. Nor would we blame you—that vile beast certainly had it coming. We, um . . . ." He glanced toward Hermione, who chewed nervously at her lower lip as she gave an encouraging nod. "We suspect you're the one who offed MacNair."

A strained silence fell as Antonin looked from Thorfinn to Hermione, and back. After a moment, he dropped his gaze to the floor as he opened his mouth to reply.

He and Thorfinn both winced, just then, each reaching to wrap their fingers around their left forearms. Frowning, the wizards exchanged a glance, the burning sensation of the Dark Lord's summons effectively tabling the issue for the time being.

"I have a bad feeling about this," Hermione said with a solemn shake of her head. There seemed no way a summons a mere three days after MacNair's murder could be a good thing.

His eyes drifting closed, Thorfinn nodded. There was an instant sour churning in the pit of his stomach—although he'd seemingly been cleared the night of the party, he was still under an inordinate amount of scrutiny. He couldn't help but feel that if their Lord could not identify the culprit, he'd put the blame, and the punishment, on Thorfinn, anyway, to make a point about depriving him of his most loyal followers.

Clearing his throat, he gave himself a shake and turned to face his witch as he opened his eyes. He curled gentle fingers over her shoulders, noting—for how many times that would make this, now, he could not be certain—how large his hands seemed when wrapped around any part of her small frame. It was a good reminder, he supposed, as she stared up at him with those huge chestnut eyes of hers, of how fragile she actually was.

Not defenseless, not be any measure, no. She was a terrifyingly powerful witch in her own right, he knew. But fragile in other ways . . . . In ways that terrified him. Without her wand, she'd been nearly helpless, even then she'd had that fire of hers. But anyone could have hurt her—as MacNair nearly had.

She'd become so very important to him that the notion of losing her played on a loop of dull horror, always in the back of his mind. Ever since the moment she had set foot in his home, she'd been the one constant thing, giving him strength and comfort, despite that he'd led a life that hardly saw to him deserving of such things.

She'd come into his life long before either of them had a reason to matter to each other, a wretched little busybody of wild hair and even wilder temperament.

Now she remained as the only thing in the world he thought he could not even breathe without.

He was taking so many heartbeats, merely staring down at her that his Mark burned, again, more insistently, this time, but he managed to ignore it, somehow. He barely heard Dolohov's hissed breath as he was summoned once more, as well.

Yet, all Thorfinn could focus on was the tiny, amazing creature before him. Leaning near, he dropped his forehead lightly against hers as he let his eyes drift closed, again. He inhaled sharply, pulling in as much of her sweet, familiar scent as he could manage.

Dear God, he could not believe how much he loved her.

"Do not leave, all right? I'll have Dolohov lock the property with a charm so no one can enter unless you allow them."

Gasping at the unexpected sound of desperation in his tone, Hermione pulled back enough to meet his gaze. "Why are you talking like that? You've done nothing wrong."

"I just want—" Cutting himself off, he shook his head and tried again. "I just _need_  you to be safe."

Trying to lighten the mood a little, she reached beneath neck of her dress, tugging on the chain of her locator charm to show him the glinting of silver in reminder. It was such a constant in her life to have that necklace around her neck, that it felt like a part of her by now.

"You'd know if I left, remember?"

Nodding he followed her fingers with his own, tugging the necklace out, into view, entirely. Yes, he'd had it enchanted so  _she_  could not open it . . . .

Hermione could not hide the shock in her face as he reached around her neck, opening the clasp. She watched, feeling oddly detached for a split-second as he slid the chain down, holding the charm in one hand.

"What are you doing?"

"I want you to stay because _you_  want to, not because I've trapped you here."

Her shoulders drooped as she held his gaze. Never had she thought a man like Thorfinn Rowle could look so positively helpless.

It hurt her heart to realize he was acting this way for only one reason—he was scared.

Forcing a small smile onto her lips, she took the necklace from his hand. She put it back around her neck, locking the clasp, once more.

To his surprised expression, she said, "And I want you to  _always_  be able to find me."

Thorfinn's face absolutely crumbled as he pulled her to him, then, covering her mouth with his own.

Antonin shifted uncomfortably in the backdrop a moment, not wishing to intrude. But then, if he did not, the next summons would be distinctly unpleasant.

"Thorfinn, we need to go."

The golden haired wizard reluctantly broke the kiss, leaning back to lock eyes with Hermione one last time before he released her and turned for the door.

Swallowing hard, she watched them go. She should be grateful for Voldemort's always suspect timing, she supposed. It had robbed Dolohov of his chance to answer their accusation, thus robbing Thorfinn of any  _solid_  knowledge of what that answer might have been.

Even if, in his desire to find the responsible party, the Dark Lord tried to pluck a sure answer from Thorfinn's mind, all the serpentine wizard would find was suspicion.

Somehow, though, reassuring herself he was not in danger—at least, not in this respect—did little to slow the sudden racing of her heart.

* * *

Thorfinn refrained from asking, directly. As he stood by and watched Antonin lay the enchantment to keep intruders away from the house, as they Apparated to the castle grounds, he held his tongue.

Unbeknownst to him, he'd had the very same realization as Hermione, once the front doors of the house had closed between them. It was better that he did not know for certain if Antonin was MacNair's killer. More so, it had been foolish of them to ask the question.

Surely, if Antonin Dolohov was responsible, he'd be wise enough to do something—anything—to throw suspicion as far from himself as possible. They could've waited this out, waited until someone was held accountable, and then asked Dolohov if he'd had any involvement in the matter.

Bit late for all that now, he thought as they wound their way through the main floor, across corridors and up staircases toward the Headmaster's office.

Before they even set foot inside the room, they heard a series of hacking coughs. Pausing, they exchanged a look—the sound was equal parts unsettling and repugnant. His rasping breaths had become increasingly compromised as time wore on following the War.

As they entered, they found they were not the only Death Eaters called upon, they were simply the last to arrive. Rabastan arched a brow as everyone turned their attention on them.

"What the bloody hell took you two?"

Once more, Antonin and Thorfinn exchanged a look. "I had to go retrieve this one. He was a bit distracted, dallying with his little toy," Antonin said, his voice steady, his response not skipping a beat.

Thorfinn appropriately rolled his eyes and set his jaw. He'd never been one to care for airing business that hadn't taken place in full view of witnesses, so his reaction, as well, was perfectly in-character for the situation.

Ignoring whatever their comrades made of that, they both moved on to present themselves before the Dark Lord, giving sweeping bows before backing away, once more. They all seemed to have been waiting in silence, as it was.

Yet, as they backpedaled, Thorfinn noticed that upon the desk before Voldemort lay a wand. The wood snapped in two, he knew he'd seen it before, but could not immediately place the owner.

That was, until the Dark Lord waved a wasting-away hand. There was shimmering in the air, then, and on the floor beside his desk appeared the crumbled form of Theodore Nott, Sr.

Yes, now that he saw the body, Thorfinn could connect it with the broken weapon.

When he searched the room with his gaze, he found the younger Nott wizard staring at his father's corpse. He looked . . . relieved, actually.

"It would seem that when I finally released Nott from his punishment . . . his first act was to strike out at me by depriving me of his fellow Death Eaters' servitude. Your numbers are few—" The Dark Lord paused, shielding another series of gut-churning coughs. "Disobedience of this caliber will not be tolerated. Let this stand as a warning to  _all_  of you. Cost me one of my most loyal, and you may well consider turning your wand on yourself, as it will be a far kinder fate than what I have in store for you."

Thorfinn did not know what to make of the entire thing as they were dismissed and filed out. However, a quick look—a split second of passing gazes and subtle nods—had him reconsidering the simple answer that had been placed before their Lord.

As the Death Eaters wound down toward the main floor, Thorfinn yanked Antonin and Theo out of the disjointed line of procession by their elbows.

The younger wizard seemed positively ready to leap out of his skin at the unexpected dragging. Antonin, on the other hand, simply sighed as he nodded and allowed himself to be pulled along. He thought he should've expected this, perhaps. Thorfinn played the lumbering idiot when it suited him for people to underestimate his intellect, but he was _far_ from stupid.

When they were far out of earshot of any of their fellow Death Eaters, he released them. "Did you two do what I _think_  you did?"

Theo opened his mouth, prepared to lie, but Antonin held up a hand. "Not here," he said, nodding toward the nearest door.

Thorfinn nodded, gesturing for the other two to lead the way. Finding the room empty, the three trooped inside, before locking the door and charming the area to keep from being overheard.

"Yes," Antonin finally said with a nod and a glance at Theo, and then returning his attention to his partner. " _I_ did it. Walden MacNair was the worst of us, and the Dark Lord's recent decisions have only made him worse. He needed to be stopped."

"And using Nott's wand?"

Theo forced a gulp down his throat before he could form the words. "I gave it to him. Father's mind was broken after his incarceration, but I knew . . . ." The young man shook his head, his lower lip trembling—indeed, he did not possess the necessary predisposition to be a Death Eater, the only conclusion Thorfinn could draw was that his father had decided that fate for him. "I knew that had he been there, he'd have happily taken part in what was done to your sister. I knew that if he had come out of confinement with his mind intact, he would _happily_  do worse, had he the opportunity."

"After I saw Reina safely into hiding, Theo and I knew we needed a way to deal with MacNair, but that also meant needing a scapegoat." Antonin shrugged. "One who more than deserved whatever punishment the Dark Lord would deliver for this crime."

"My father was a terrible man. When Mr. Dolohov asked me to sneak him his wand, I knew it could only be for something like this. And that's exactly  _why_  I did it." Theo frowned, the first sparks of anger Thorfinn had ever seen from the young man flickering across his features, just then. "I'd probably have been better off being raised by a pack of rabid werewolves for how much that man cared for me."

Thorfinn nodded, processing the scenario. He didn't want any further information than what they'd already told him. He didn't need to know when, precisely Theo had slipped Antonin his father's wand after his release from incarceration, nor how he'd gotten it back into his father's possession—and he could easily imagine that Voldemort had been so enraged to learn the  _identity_  of the culprit, that he'd assumed Nott had only played at his mind being broken to escape suspicion of, or punishment for the act.

But that didn't alleviate the golden haired wizard's curiosity about one point.

With an exasperated sigh, he turned his attention unfalteringly on Dolohov. "Why not tell me all of this? MacNair hurt my sister. You think I wouldn't have helped?"

The other two shared a look. " _Because_  he hurt your sister—because you would've _jumped_  at the chance to help. You were the first suspect, as you'll recall. Even if you had no direct hand in it, you'd have been vulnerable to the Dark Lord's scrutiny by happenstance. The only way for this to work was for you to be kept out of it."

Thorfinn leaned back against the nearest wall, letting his head tip back. He could feel the other two watching him for those few, silent heartbeats.

They'd done it, all by themselves. They'd eliminated not one, but two of their fellow Death Eaters, and pulled the wool over the Dark Lord's eyes. Either their Lord knew the truth and was lulling them into false sense of security by following their breadcrumbs,  _or_ their scheme had actually worked.

The Dark Lord was many things, all-knowing not among them. Perhaps it was time for them to all stop fearing that he was.

Finally, he lowered his gaze to meet Antonin's. "This had better not be some elaborate scheme just to get me to approve of you and Reina."

Antonin chuckled and shook his head. "Yes, as I clearly assumed  _this_ was the easiest way to do that."

"We should get back out to the main floor before too many people notice we're missing."

Antonin and Thorfinn nodded in agreement with Theo's words of caution. Dispelling the enchantment, they exited the room, only to hear a commotion in the heart of the castle.

Rushing to join their fellows, they managed to catch Alecto just as she was heading toward the ancient double doors.

"Hurry," she said in a hissing breath, shaking her head at them, clearly not understanding why they all looked confused by the flurry of motion as the other Death Eaters were leaving to get enough distance to from the castle to Apparate.

"What's happening?" Thorfinn asked through clenched teeth, having little patience for  _her_ lack of patience.

"The Undesirables. They've started a riot in Hogsmeade."


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter Twenty-One**

Hermione paced restlessly across the foyer. Though, she knew the old adage about watching a pot, and all that, she could not seem to make herself budge from there. She trusted Dolohov's enchantment to keep the house safely guarded, she had hope that Thorfinn would not be held responsible for a crime he'd not committed, she should be comfortable enough in that to at least be able to go and fix herself a bloody cup of tea, or something!

All she'd been through these months, and here she was, right back to feeling helpless.

And yet, she did not think she could move out of eyeline of the front doors until she had some sign, or news, or—

"Hermione!"

Her heart slammed against her rib cage at the sound of that familiar voice she'd not heard in so many weeks calling her name. "Reina?"

Despite a sudden wash of caution batting at her brain, Hermione approached the doors, setting her ear to them. She heard footfalls crossing the porch.

"Ouch! Dammit, Antonin. Couldn't have used a less  _shocky_  enchantment, could you?" There was an audible sigh that Hermione recognized quite well. "I know the ward Antonin cast on the house, you're going to have to let me in."

Hermione wanted nothing more than to allow the other witch entry, but she was still too aware what wizards like Rabastan might find themselves tempted to do—were he inebriated, as she knew sober Rabastan was actually not so awful—should they realize she was alone. She hoped that was actually Reina out there so hard, it hurt.

"How do I know that's really  _you_?"

The voice outside uttered an indelicate scoffing sound. "Because I'm the one who told you that you and my idiot brother would end up together? And don't you pretend otherwise, Antonin told me all about you two."

That tone. It wasn't admonishing, as one would expect, but haughty . . . an  _I told you so_  only Reina Rowle, or Hermione, herself, could pull off.

Hermione felt such a rush of relief, she nearly collapsed against the doors even as she scrambled to pull them open. She barely had time to get a breath, however, as Reina barreled through the moment Hermione had the doors cracked.

Hermione thought, with a melancholic humor, that this must've been how Harry always felt, at the mercy of her tiny-bear hugs, as Reina threw her arms around the brunette witch, embracing her tightly.

"Oh, Merlin, I missed you!" In a mothering fashion, Reina immediately forced the other young woman out to hold her at arms' length. Giving her a slow, calculating once-over, she nodded. "Oh, you! You look wonderful. I was a little worried you'd fall into starvation with my brother looking after you."

Uttering a scoffing sound of her own, now, Hermione swatted Reina's arm. "We were looking after each other, thanks very much. Anyway, what are you doing here? I thought—"

"Hang on." Backpedaling a step, Reina shut the doors. When they were securely closed, she nodded to herself. "Okay, yes. I wasn't going to return home until this was all over, but I had reason to believe my safety was compromised where I was."

Hermione furrowed her brow. "But I thought you were in a Resistance safe house or something like that."

With a sigh, the blonde witch nodded. "Something like that, yes."

That didn't sound good, at all. "Does that mean someone in the Resistance is—"

"I will tell you everything, but I'm thinking I should do so over a nice, stiff drink."

* * *

Well, Hermione certainly saw Reina's resemblance to Thorfinn in the way she knocked back a glass of Fire Whiskey and poured herself a second before even starting to speak. Hermione sat beside her on the sofa in the study, her own glass pressed between her palms, but largely untouched as she waited for her friend to speak.

"I'm sorry," she said abruptly, startling Reina as she prepared to start her explanations.

Now, it was Reina's turn to furrow her brow. "What?"

Hermione took a quick sip of her drink. "I know you're going to tell me I shouldn't apologize, and it's not my fault, but I'm sorry I couldn't protect you from MacNair that night."

"They told you what happened?" The blonde made an unpleasant rumbling sound in the back of her throat. "I'll kill them, myself."

"No, no. I sort of edged it out of Thorfinn. He didn't actually say, so much as I guessed and he couldn't tell me otherwise. But I know what happened to you, and I am  _so_  sorry."

"You daft little thing, you," Reina said with a sad laugh and a shake of her head. "I was the one with a wand, and I couldn't even stop him from giving you a smack that sent you across the room. What exactly could _you_  have possibly done to stop what happened to me? No wand, room full of Death Eaters . . . ." Her smile faded and the look in her eyes grew distant. "He was forced to watch, you know. Finnie. The Dark Lord forced him to watch what was happening to me."

Hermione drowned a horrified gasp in a long gulp of Fire Whiskey. Wincing, she gave her head a quick shake. "He didn't tell me that. That's . . . there aren't even words for how horrible that is."

"Of course he wouldn't tell you that. Just another facet of the incident you'd have found some way to blame yourself for." Reina was quick to replenish what the other witch had drained from her glass. "But, now you know, it's all out in the open, and we never have to discuss it again."

With a sigh, Hermione nodded. "Okay, all right." Yes, it was probably better that way. "So that brings us back to why you came back home."

Reina drained her glass—with so much speed, Hermione thought if she blinked, she'd have missed it—and set it down. "First . . . you have to _promise_ me you won't get angry with me for what I'm about to tell you."

Uttering a scoffing sound, Hermione set down her own glass and grasped her friend's hands. "Of course I won't be angry with you!"

Reina let out an airy chuckle and shook her head. "Oh, you might be. Um, so, in order to tell you anything, I sort of have to tell you everything—at least, everything that  _I_  know. Now, I know you already know about the Malfoys. Um . . . in fact, the only reason I know about the Malfoys is because that's where I was staying. At, um, at Malfoy Manor. You see, after the  _incident,_  I tried to get to the Resistance, but my efforts fell short. Antonin found me and brought me to Lucius. Saved my life, actually."

"Antonin brought you to . . . ? He's not part of it, though, is he?"

"No, no. It was just a coincidence. But, here." Slipping one of her hands from Hermione's, Reina dug into her cloak, producing a flask. Popping it open, she held it beneath Hermione's nose.

Wincing, Hermione immediately pulled away from the familiar—and unpleasant—odor. "Polyjuice potion?! I don't under— _No_!" There'd only ever been one other female she'd seen in the presence of Lucius Malfoy, the same female Antonin had seemed rather chatty with the night of Rabastan's party. "Isla?!"

Putting the flask away, the other witch nodded. "Isla Fawley-Black, pleased to make your acquaintance," Reina said, pitching her tone a bit deeper, her annunciation altered _just_  enough that the combined effect changed her voice almost entirely.

With a shocked gasp, Hermione covered her mouth with her hands.

Reclaiming her glass, Reina poured herself another drink. "Everything was going swimmingly, we thought no one was onto the scheme . . . ."

Taking a hint from her friend, Hermione took back her own drink, downing a quick sip. "But?"

" _But_  . . . the other day, Antonin stumbled over Rabastan penning a missive in his study." Reina shrugged. "As the host of the celebration where there was such commotion—a murder, the Dark Lord putting in an unannounced appearance, there was no way the story hasn't made every Wizarding newspaper the world over—a celebration which  _Isla_ was attending, he felt personally responsible in writing Isla's mother, Eleanor, to let her know that her daughter was in no danger at any time."

"Oh, no," Hermione said with a long-suffering sigh.

Nodding, Reina continued. "Exactly. It'll probably be a few days more before he gets the reply that will blow the entire thing, and I was not eager to wait around for whatever he might do with that information."

"Does Mr. Malfoy know about the missive?"

"He suspected. When Lucius said he would contact Eleanor, Rabastan would not have it, as it was _his_  party. So, rather than risk looking complicit in my charade by insisting and  _then_  having Rabastan probably contact her, himself, anyway, Lucius will have the opportunity to pretend he was duped, as well. If it comes to that, of course. He might . . . he might not even be present when this comes to light."

"What do you mean, why not?"

Reina chewed at her bottom lip for a long moment, not meeting the other witch's gaze as she sipped her drink. Clearing her throat, she said, "For the time being, I'll be staying in Uncle's part of the house, if that's all right?"

Hermione's shoulders slumped as she uttered an ugly sound in the back of her throat. "Of course it's all right! This is your home, why would you even ask me?"

"Well, it's yours, too . . . isn't it?"

Nodding, a slow smile curved Hermione's lips. "Actually, it is, but of course, it's all right. It would always be all right, you daft little thing."

Reina snorted a giggle as she gave Hermione a quick, calculating look. "Say that to someone taller than you, the nerve."

"No, but really. What is this about Mr. Malfoy?"

"I know he told you about the plans the Resistance has, and the talk you told him about with Finnie . . . . But, um, something came to light earlier this afternoon that forced their hand."

"Okay, Reina—" Hermione cut herself off to knock back the remainder of her drink in one large gulp. Setting down the glass, she let out a rattling breath. "Just  _out_ with it. What is happening?"

If circumstances weren't so serious, Reina might've facetiously admonished the other witch for her snippy tone. As it was, things  _were_ very serious, so she simply powered into her next explanation. "The original plan was to strike Umbridge Home in about three weeks' time. Exit strategies and safe homes in foreign Wizarding communities have all be arranged for the prisoners; the Malfoys were going to secret Luna away somewhere. But . . . this afternoon, she went into labor, early."

Hermione's eyes shot wide. "Oh, my God! Is she—?"

"As far as I know, she's fine. Hasn't had the baby, yet, but it seemed exactly the catalyst the Resistance needed to step up the timeframe to raid the place. With any luck, they'll have her to safety in time for the actual birth."

"God, I hope so! If anything happens to Luna, or her baby, I swear, I'll—"

"Whatever threat  _you're_  about to level, I'm pretty sure the Malfoys will beat you to it."

Sighing, Hermione wiped her hands down her face. This was all so unbelievable! She was absolutely overjoyed that wretched facility was  _finally_  being dealt with, but also equal parts excited and panicked for the soon-to-be parents.

"Oh, no. Is that why Thorfinn and Dolohov were both summoned this evening?"

"I'd have to say yes." Reina noticed the sudden frantic gleam in her friend's eye. Putting down her drink, she clamped her hands over Hermione's shoulders. "Don't worry about Finnie, he's going to be okay. They know he's not in favor of the Dark Lord so much, anymore. As long as he doesn't put in any real effort to protect Umbridge Home, he'll be safe."

Hermione felt like crumbling in on herself at the thought. If she had any idea where Umbridge Home was, she'd Apparate there, herself, and lend the Resistance—and Thorfinn—a hand. "Lucius said he might still get hit, but it would be non-lethal. Oh, but what about Antonin?"

Reina waved dismissively. "After going out of his way to help me, he's made their Redeemable list, too. I took a page from your book, and had the same sort of hypothetical discussion with him. His answers told the Resistance all they needed to know."

Nodding, Hermione drew in a deep breath and let it out slow, trying to settle her suddenly frayed nerves. Things were happening, and that was amazing news! But her current inability to help—she could not risk being a distraction to Thorfinn in a situation like this—was blindingly frustrating.

With a scowl, she reached for the bottle of Fire Whiskey to pour herself a fresh round.

Uttering sympathetic laugh, Reina patted her friend's arm. Though, she too, held out her glass for a refill.

* * *

No sooner had the three appeared on the streets of Hogsmeade, then did they find themselves being hollered at with a redirection. Thorfinn was in the process of turning about, drawing his wand more on instinct at the commotion all around them, than any intent to strike, as were Theo and Antonin.

The scene was madness . . . . people running everywhere, spells firing wildly, shopfronts going up in flames, screams of panic rent the air. But he noticed . . . . The spells were firing a bit  _too_  wildly. They were not hitting anyone, or anything. Whoever was casting them was going for exactly this result—dispersing the people, creating fear and chaos.

But, as soon as he registered this, as soon as he started to lower his wand, Rabastan tore out from an alleyway and made a beeline for them.

"It's a distraction! They're gone, any Undesirables on the scene Disapparated the minute we arrived here."

The three late arrivals looked around at each other. "What? Where did they go?" Antonin asked, surprised he could hear himself over the chaos.

"Reports say they're hitting Umbridge Home. You three go, I've been instructed to stay here and manage this mess. Amycus and Lucius and some of the others are already there. Go, now!"

There was another dizzying rush as they once again Apparated. Somehow, though, in that whirl of time and space and motion, a memory flitted back to him.

_"Voldemort is using you and the other Death Eaters as enforcers. If the Resistance were ever to make a move on Umbridge Home, you'd likely be sent in to defend that wretched place. I don't know how I feel about that."_

_Thorfinn's entire frame tensed as her words settled over him. Defending a place like that? A place where what happened to Reina—and worse—was done to those witches repeatedly?_

_He forced a hard gulp down his throat before inhaling sharply. "I'd sooner spark the fire charm to burn that place to ash than defend it."_

_"But you'd be in danger from Voldemort if you didn't do as you were told, wouldn't you?"_

_Sighing, he shook his head in thought. For the chance to see it ended, he'd gladly hand himself over for punishment. But he couldn't risk where that would leave Hermione, if that punishment was his death._

_"There are so many things that happen in chaotic encounters, as I imagine something like that would be." He shrugged against her. "No one who matters would notice if my wand strikes always landed a few, scant millimeters to the left of my targets, now would they?"_

As he popped back into existence some distance from the wretched facility, he gave himself a shake. Had Hermione actually known this would happen?

He couldn't focus on that, just now. Death Eaters were trying to break through wards the Resistance had erected to protect an intermittent flood of occupants being escorted from the building amid the anarchy of the scene, and engaging in battle with recognized Undesirables.

Antonin seemed reluctant as he moved into position to assist in the cursebreaking. Thorfinn turned, watching his partner. And he noticed something  _funny._

Though Antonin had sidled in with the others, as he raised his wand, adding his magic to the ongoing efforts, the issuance of energy from him was . . .  _paltry_. Thorfinn was accustomed to the explosion of magical power of which Antonin Dolohov was typically capable.

But, he understood. With his new whatever-he-had with Reina, Dolohov probably had cause to rethink this wretched place's existence.

As Thorfinn gripped his wand, he was aware of Theo, poor confused Theo, who'd not seen fighting like this outside the Battle of Hogwarts. Even bearing the title Death Eater, Nott, Jr. was probably baffled at the fight to defend any place where such atrocities occurred. Turning, Thorfinn clamped his free hand over Theo's shoulder—any moment they'd be noticed, idly standing about.

"Put on a show."

The younger wizard blinked a few times in rapid succession. "What?"

Glancing about the tumult, Thorfinn leaned closer, speaking low enough that only Theo could hear him. "This place  _needs_ to fall. Go,  _play_  at helping protect it. But make it look convincing—I'm going to feel responsible if something happens to you."

Swallowing hard, Theo nodded. Were it anyone else, he might think they were setting him up to fail, but he felt a strange trust toward Antonin and Thorfinn, now.

Wand drawn, Theo spun and ran into the fray.

With all the commotion already happening, Thorfinn found that no one seemed to notice how he was distinctly  _not_  launching into action, himself. The moment allowed him to take in the scene, in its entirety. And it was  _madness_.

Madness that made him strangely aware . . . Dolohov and Theo were not the only ones putting in half-efforts. His grip on his wand slackened as he tried to get a glimpse of who, precisely, was pulling their punches, but as he took a slow step closer to the pandemonium, he heard a terrible sound from behind him.

"What do you think you're doing, standing about like this?!"

His broad shoulders hunched at the shrill voice of Dolores Umbridge.

As he turned to face her, her eyes widened and she bared her teeth in a look that was a mix of both rage and disbelief. He had his mask on, surely, but not many Death Eaters shared his stature.

"You're Rowle, aren't you?" Her lips twisted in a sneer. "Oh, yes. I've got you, now. Just wait until I tell the Dark Lord one of his _precious_  Death Eaters stood by, idle, as all my hard work was destroyed!"

His grip on his wand tightened.

Umbridge noticed the difference in his grasp from the corner of her eye. But her position and all she was doing to rebuild Wizarding Britain into something the Dark Lord would consider worthwhile gave her an unflappable sense of confidence, just now. "Do not bother trying to plead with me, either. He'll lock you up and throw away the key. Perhaps he'll even kill you. And once our Lord has dealt with you, _I'll_  be free to finally pay recompense to that horrible child, Hermione Gran—"

" _Avada Kedavra_."

In a bright, sparking flash of green, Dolores Umbridge collapsed to the ground.

Too late, Thorfinn saw his arm raised; too late, he heard his own voice speak the Killing Curse and felt the jolt of magic ripple out of his wand to strike her down. And here, he'd promised Hermione he'd let her kill the toad.

But the moment she'd threatened his witch, he'd simply acted without thought.

Lowering his arm, he shook his head at himself as he sighed. "Sorry, Princess."

He turned back toward the scene, just as a roaring broke over the sounds of chaos behind him. The facility was going up in flames. His shoulders slumped and his eyes went wide as he realized how very much he harbored the hope that all the prisoners had made it out of there.

Forcing a gulp down his throat, he looked from the fire back to the fallen witch. He could also hope that her death would be attributed, out-of-hand, to the Undesirables, or he was in  _serious_  trouble.

Footfalls hurried toward him, but he readied his wand too late. A flash of light speeding at him caught him completely off-guard.

The last thing he saw as he dropped were the angry faces of Neville Longbottom and Kingsley Shacklebolt racing right for him.


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter Twenty-Two**

Antonin turned away from the dwindling chaos of the scene just in time to witness Thorfinn crumble. This was  _bad_. Though, he realized what a gross understatement that was when he noticed a collection of Undesirables making a hurried bee-line for the golden-haired wizard.

Their movements rushed and angry, Antonin managed to make out one word that fell from Kingsley Shacklebolt's lips as he and one of his cohorts hefted up their incapacitated prey.  _Hermione._

He headed toward them at a run, but just as he aimed his wand on them, they Disapparated, forcing his partner side-along.

Cursing under his breath as reached the scene of the Disapparation, he dropped his wand arm to his side. As he glanced about, he noticed the fallen witch. More than that . . . he noticed Thorfinn's wand was nowhere to be seen.

Had his captors actually taken Thorfinn's weapon with them?

"What happened?!"

At any other time, his shoulders would've hunched and his entire frame tensed unpleasantly at the sound of that voice, but just now, he was too bewildered by the seemingly incongruous information before him to react. Alecto must've noticed his lack of response, as well, because she approached him on cautious footfalls.

"I saw the Undesirables take Thorfinn. It's because of her, isn't it? His little Mudblood pet?"

Marshalling his focus, Antonin forced a nod. "I would have to think so."

Following his gaze, Alecto's brows shot. "Oh, my," she said, eyeing the body. " Tell me we have something to report back to the Dark Lord about how _that_ happened?"

After what had been done to Reina, his not-very-subtle reluctance to participate in defense of this place, and their interaction at Rabastan's party, Antonin was rather certain what had transpired here. Even so, he answered in the only way he could think of to protect Thorfinn. "From what I gather, Thorfinn was battling Shacklebolt and Longbottom, and she just . . . got in the way."

* * *

Thorfinn's head was splitting as he came to. Slow, drowsy, blindingly painful . . . . As the barren room around him swam into focus, he became aware of a tugging on his shoulders. He pulled at his arms feebly, only to feel the bite of metal at his wrists.

Shackled in a mysterious room, well, that was not the best situation to wake up in. But then, the intermittent buzzing around him that had persisted as he drifted into consciousness ceased, now, and he realized—only in its absence—what that buzzing had been. Conversation.

Wincing, he gave his head a shake, and immediately regretted the motion, as it worsened the pounding in his skull. Forcing his bleary eyes to stay open, he focused on the shapes before him until they made sense.

"Well, shit," was all he could manage as he found the less-than-pleased faces of Kingsley Shacklebolt, Neville Longbottom, and the Weasley brother with the scars . . . . Had they gone to school together? He did look familiar. Yes, he was pretty sure the ginger-haired wizard had been ahead of him by two, maybe three years?

Not that it mattered very much, now, but it was funny what one's mind got up to when they awoke to such very abysmal circumstances.

The Weasley pointed his wand directly at Thorfinn, his grip so tight the color drained from his knuckles. On either side of him, Shacklebolt and Longbottom stood at the ready.

"Thorfinn Rowle," the one threatening him directly said, stepping closer. "The crimes of which you stand accused are grave  _and_ innumerable. Give me  _one_ reason we should abstain from killing you here and now."

Letting his eyes drift closed, Thorfinn forced out a coughing chuckle as he shook his head. God, he wished he'd known when he walked out of his house tonight that it would be his last.

"I can't."

Weasley's expression only grew more severe as he moved closer.

"But . . . promise me you'll go find Hermione after you kill me—and  _before_  the Dark Lord can realize I'm dead. She's at my family's estate." Once more, he shook his head, swallowing hard before he continued. "You'll want to destroy the necklace she's wearing. It's tuned to me, but another Death Eater might be able to figure out how to track its signature."

The ginger-haired wizard halted in his tracks, then. Though he didn't lower his wand, he turned his head to look at his companions.

Answering his glance with a nod, they each moved to flank him.

_I'm sorry, Hermione_ , Thorfinn thought as he braced himself.

* * *

Reina stirred, her sleep disturbed by an insistent pulsing from the band of silver 'round her wrist. She swatted blindly at the sensation, until she remembered the bracelet was the one the Resistance had given her to alert her when she was needed.

Shooting upright in the bed of one of the guest suites in Uncle's wing, she all but stumbled out from beneath the covers and hurried to the window.

On the lawn below, Lucius Malfoy waited. Not exactly the picture of patience, he stared at the front doors as he tapped a foot against the ground and stood with his arms folded across his chest.

Realizing what his presence there must mean, she snatched up her wand, preparing to head straight down the servant's staircase and slip out the backdoor . . . . But then she remembered her housemate.

Her shoulders slumped, but she wanted to assure herself that at least one of them was having a peaceful night's sleep.

Rushing across the house, as silently as she could manage, she skidded to a stop outside Hermione's door . . . . Only to force herself to backpedal to her  _brother's_ door.

Easing the door open, she popped her head in. There was Hermione, curled up and looking impossibly tiny in Thorfinn's enormous bed.

A thoughtful little grin curving her lips, Reina rethought her initial plan to cast a charm to keep the other witch asleep. If anything happened in her absence, Hermione would be unable to defend herself. After pulling the door closed, she raced out of the house—probably faster than she'd ever moved in her life.

Lucius arched a brow at the witch as she doubled over to catch her breath from the sudden and unexpected burst of exertion.

"Mr.—Mr. Malfoy, how . . . how did . . . ? Oh, I'm sorry, I need just a—"

"Come along, I will fill you in, en-route."

Before Reina could even finish catching her breath, Lucius slipped a hand around her elbow, dragging her side-along. They appeared on the shore, not far from Shell Cottage.

Reina gave herself a shake, trying to gain her bearings as she continued dragging down gulpfuls of air. Already, Lucius was off, and she scurried to fall into step beside him.

"We got them all out, every girl she was keeping prisoner in that awful facility of hers."

A wash of relief tore through the witch. "Sweet Merlin, thank you! And Luna?"

"She is at Malfoy Manor, at the moment. Draco and Minerva are with her, but as you can imagine, I am eager to return, so I'm escorting you quickly."

"Wait . . . she can't stay there, they'll find her and they'll know—"

"Arrangements have already been made. I will be escorting her and the baby to safety, after the birth, and both receiving a clean bill of health, of course."

"Oh, that's wonderful news! You must be so happy."

Lucius almost smiled as they walked quickly up the path from the shore to the cottage. Reina knew from her time under his roof, however, that the expression was as close to one of joy as Lucius Malfoy could manage. "As you will be in a moment, I'm sure."

"What do you mean?"

"Well," the wizard said as he shook his head. "It would seem your brother killed Dolores Umbridge."

Reina let out a surprised, but ecstatic squeak as they paused on the doorstep. "You're joking."

"As if I would ever?" Lucius gripped the doorknob and turned, but didn't not open it, yet. "It was witnessed by Kingsley and Neville, actually. And then, well . . . ."

She didn't like his tone, bracing herself as he finally pushed open the door. And, certain enough, there she found a sight that tore a startled gasp from her lips.

At the table—with how small the cottage was, the dining area was in direct eye-line of the doorway—sat her brother, his expression wary, even as Fleur treated some abrasions on his wrists.

"Finnie?"

Immediately, his expression brightened as he looked up. "There you are!"

He started to stand, but immediately Fleur frowned, tugging him back toward his seat.

"Give me a minute, woman!"

Her expression pinching, Fleur shook her head, rattling off at him in French. Even Bill winced at her tone, trying to get Thorfinn's attention.

Holding up his hands, Thorfinn nodded as he lowered himself back down to sit. "All right, all right.  _No_  idea what you just said, but I've learned my lesson about arguing with angry witches."

"About bloody time," Reina said, hurrying across to him. Mindful of the wounds being treated—and the unhappy veela seated before him—she, instead, rounded to stand behind her brother. Throwing her arms around his neck, she hugged him tight. "I can't believe you're here."

Thorfinn huffed out a sigh as he shook his head. He still couldn't quite believe this turn of events. "Apparently they have something called the Redeemable List, which they take very seriously."

"Do they, now?" Arching a brow, his sister stood, eyeing a few of the wizards in the room, in turn. "That is good to know."

Kingsley cleared his throat and walked over to stand with them. "We'll cross _that_  bridge when we come to it, Reina. For now, though, we did not just invite you here for a reunion with your brother. We have need of your incomparable ability with charms."

She swung her gaze about to lock on Neville as he approached, a scroll open in his hands.

"We worked out a way around the Dark Mark. But it has to be done both fast  _and_ precise. You're the most skilled charm-caster we've got."

Exchanging a glance with her brother, Reina nodded. "Yeah, of course!" Reaching for the scroll, she looked over the calculations they'd worked out for a modified stasis charm. "Oh! Oh my  _Lord_ , this is brilliant!"

"There's a catch," Thorfinn said, a somber tone now present in his voice.

Reina did not like the way he sounded, at all. Clutching the scroll in her hands, she fell into the nearest empty chair.

"The Dark Lord uses the Marks to track us. If he can't use it to track me . . . ." He looked to Lucius—odd how he suddenly felt a kinship with the older wizard—who nodded in response. "He'll think I've been killed."

Everyone looked quite serious, rather immediately. "Which means what?"

"In order to protect her . . . ." Closing his eyes, Thorfinn swallowed hard. "We're going to have to let Hermione think it, too. At least until this madness is over."

Reina covered her mouth with trembling fingers as she thought over the look that would cross Hermione's face when she was told Thorfinn was dead. "I don't know that I can do that!"

"We can make that easier for you." Bill finally pushed away from the wall to join the group around the table. "A temporary memory charm. Not  _Obliviate,_ this would involve a minor alteration that will allow us to undo it easily enough at a later date."

Reina's brow furrowed as she dropped her gaze to the tabletop. "I . . . I don't . . . ."

Thorfinn slipped his wrists from beneath Fleur's wand. The veela-witch responded by throwing her hands in the air and shooting up from her chair to stand beside her husband, who chuckled at her temper before curling an arm over her shoulders. Ignoring the minor commotion, Thorfinn gripped gentle hands around his sister's. "It's the only way to protect the two of you."

Her lower lip puckering, the younger Rowle sniffled. "But I'm going to believe you're  _dead?_  I don't know that I can—I don't think I'll be able to—"

"I know," he said, nodding. "But you have to. And you're  _strong_. You can do this."

Furrowing her brow, Reina sniffled once more and nodded. "Fine, okay. You're right! I can do this." Giving herself a shake, she drew her wand and reopened the scroll from Neville. "All right. Let's see about this charm you lot have whipped up."

* * *

Antonin winced as a series of those familiar hacking coughs tore out of the Dark Lord. He exchanged an unhappy glance with Rabastan. Alecto had joined Amycus, trying to contain the damage in Hogsmeade once the crowd had been calmed, and all the fires extinguished.

And now, Antonin, the Lestrange heir, and Theo stood in the headmaster's office, trying to ignore the unsettling noises erupting from the serpentine wizard.

He'd recounted Umbridge's  _accidental_ death—to which the Dark Lord had scoffed and shook his head, muttering something about how it might be fitting, as she never seemed to understand her place, as it was—as well as Thorfinn's capture at the hands of the Resistance.

Nodding, Voldemort sat back, stroking his pointed chin with bony fingers. "Took one of my Death Eaters, did they?"

"We believe it was because of his pet, My Lord," Rabastan said, his head shaking, apologetic. He'd not been on the scene at the time, but it was not outside the realm of possibility that the elder wizard might still somehow blame them, both, for the capture.

"Hermione Granger was quite important to their efforts before the War's end," Antonin agreed. "It is entirely possible they took him to find her."

"Then that is their foolishness, is in not?" Voldemort asked, a sickly smile curving his thin lips. "One that might well play to  _our_ advantage."

Antonin and Rabastan looked on as the Dark Lord attempted to sense Thorfinn's Mark. A flood of varied expressions flickered across his skeletal features before he settled on enraged.

"He must have withheld whatever information they were looking for." Voldemort paused, giving into another series of terrible coughs, this fit clearly brought on by his anger. "Thorfinn is dead."

Antonin felt his heart drop into his stomach. Never had he been more grateful for his mask than he was in that moment as he exchanged a glance with Rabastan, and then Theo

"You are dismissed."

At the abrupt send-off, the three did not budge. None of them were certain of precisely how to respond.

"But, My Lord," Rabastan said, surprising Antonin with how steady his voice was in the face of the Dark Lord's wrath. "Are we to do nothing?"

Sitting back as he let out a rattling sigh, Voldemort lifted his wand. Rabastan dropped to one knee, and excruciating pain tearing through him.

"I require time to plan. You will  _not_ question me, again."

"Understood, My Lord. My . . . my apologies."

The moment he was freed from that agony, Rabastan climbed to his feet. Giving a sweeping bow, he trooped from the office behind his fellow Death Eaters.

Once they were down on the main floor of the castle, Antonin knew—other than having to be the one to break this terrible news to Hermione  _and_  Reina—he would have to act quickly to keep Hermione from the clutches of his fellows. He was also aware of Theo's presence, and wondered how the young man was affected by the news, yet he could not focus on that, just now.

He needed to get to Hermione and Reina, first, then he could come back and check on Theodore.

Whirling on his heel, he found he'd actually caught Rabastan off-guard. "Do not even think it, Lestrange."

"Think what?" Rabastan inquired, honestly mystified a moment. It really had been a  _long_ night, he was starting to have trouble keeping up.

"Thorfinn had told me in the event that anything should happen to him, Hermione becomes  _mine_." Once, those words would've filled Antonin with joy, now, they were the only way to ensure her safety. "Am I perfectly clear?"

Rabastan scowled behind his mask. "Oh, well, fine. Curse you for being sharp."

Shaking his head, Antonin turned and walked out the doors.

* * *

Hermione was awoken by a gentle knock on Thorfinn's bedroom door. Sitting up, she rubbed her fists against her eyes before she even opened them, letting the quilt tumble away from her.

Again, the knocking came.

"Reina?" Her voice came out entirely too low and her shoulders slumped. Retrieving her wand from her bedside table, she climbed out of bed and moved toward the door on plodding, exhausted footfalls.

Upon opening it, the last thing she expected to see was Antonin Dolohov. His mask off, he stood there in his Death Eater robes, his expression severe and his gaze downcast.

She'd never seen him look like this, before. "Dolohov?"

"I am . . . sorry to be here so late, котенок, but . . . ." Trailing off, he shook his head.

She hated the hollow impact of the silence that followed his words. " _But_?"

"I think . . . ." He furrowed his brow, finally lifting his gaze to meet hers. "I think, perhaps, you should sit down."

Inhaling sharply through her nostrils, it was her turn to shake her head, now. "I think I'll stand, thanks. Where's Thorfinn?"

Antonin opened his mouth, but then shut it again, just as fast. He could not tell Hermione that her own friends had killed him.  _God,_  what had her interference in their lives done to him?

"There was a—a battle tonight, and I'm sorry. Thorfinn . . . was felled in combat."

Hermione didn't even feel the floor racing up to meet her as she crumbled. She was barely aware of Dolohov swooping down beside her, or the sensation of his arms circling her protectively as a strangled cry tore out of her throat.


	23. Chapter 23

**Chapter Twenty-Three**

Antonin stared blankly at the pot of freshly brewed coffee scant hours later. Reina and Hermione sat at the table, their eyes red and puffy, their expressions equally blank. Those first, fleeting moments after Hermione'd broken down had been a blur.

She'd barely given herself time to get out more than that first, gut-wrenching cry before she was pulling away from Antonin to shoot to her feet. He followed her through the house, convinced she might fall right down with every other step, but she didn't stop until she ran into one of the guest suites in Uncle's—now Reina's—part of the house.

Antonin would guess the blonde witch had only just managed to fall asleep, herself, because she looked rumpled and restless. He wondered for a brief, flickering moment if her returning here had been a bad idea. Maybe the memory of being snatched away by MacNair from this very house was still too fresh in her mind to let sleep come easily.

But Hermione settled on her knees beside the bed, trying to wake her friend—even as she, herself, sniffled and shivered, quiet tears trickling down her cheeks all the while—with whispers and gentle touches.

Reina had stirred, opening her eyes in a lazy sweep to the spectacle of the other young woman's state. Holding Hermione's gaze, Reina had pulled herself to sit up slow, trying to make sense of the scene without use of words.

Then, she noticed his presence, lingering in the doorway. He knew that once upon a time, his face would've been a stone mask—unreadable, untouched—but these two delicate things before him, they'd broken him as surely as any round of torture delivered by the Dark Lord.

He could hide nothing from them, anymore. Especially not from Reina Rowle. And he understood his expression must give something vital to this moment away, because she only looked at him for the space of a single heartbeat before a gasp tore out of her.

Returning her attention to Hermione, she said in a whisper so soft, he wasn't even sure she'd given it any voice, at all, "No."

Blast it all, he thought he might as well tear out his own heart and hand it over to them for how it felt to stand there and watch them, holding each other up as they mourned their loss.

Now, he had to snap out of the unpleasant reverie in which they all seemed mired. Giving himself a shake, he focused on fixing their coffee and then brought the witches their mugs.

Antonin's hand entering her field of vision jolted Reina from her thoughts, as well. Though, her tone reflected her lifeless demeanor as she sluggishly pulled herself up from her seat and said, "I suppose I should . . . get some breakfast started."

He nodded, but Hermione showed no sign of registering that anyone had spoken.

Reina exchanged a glance with Antonin. "Do you think . . . ? Do you think you could give us a minute?"

Taking her hand, he drew her a few steps from the table. Pulling the blonde witch into his arms, he gave her a quick, firm hug before dropping a kiss to the top of her head and releasing her, again.

"Of course. Call for me when you're finished."

With a small, sad smile, Reina watched him leave the room. Turning her attention to Hermione, she felt tears gather in her eyes once more.  _Thorfinn . . . ._ She could scarcely breathe when she thought of her brother being gone. But she had someone relying on her . . . someone who'd become accustomed to having no one, as it was.

Well,  _as it was_  before she'd come to live here.

For Hermione's sake, she needed to be strong. Forcing a calming breath and squaring her shoulders, Reina returned to the table.

"I want to know what went wrong."

Reina halted in her move to place her hand over Hermione's. "What?" she asked in a whisper, surprised at how strong the other young woman's murmured voice came out.

"Lucius Malfoy told me—you told me—Thorfinn might get hurt, but I was assured he wouldn't be killed, not on purpose, anyway. As long as he didn't actively try to defend that awful place, and I _know_  he wouldn't have. He hated that place. So, that can _only_ mean something went wrong."

Swallowing hard, Reina shook her head, finally dropping her hand atop her friend's. "I wish I had an answer for you, but I only see  _them_  when I'm escorted to them—secrecy for everyone's safety, and all that. I've heard nothing; I've got just as many questions as you. I'm sorry."

Hermione nodded, giving Reina's fingers a gentle squeeze. "I'm not hungry, by the way."

Blue eyes narrowing, Reina easily recognized what Hermione was doing—giving her mothering tendencies something to fuss over to distract her from the heartache of the situation. Standing from her chair, she stared down at the other witch and propped her fists on her hips.

"Oh, this is no time to not have your strength," Reina said, arching a brow. "I'm going to make a delicious, warming meal, and you're going to eat it if I have to have Antonin hold you down while I force the food into your mouth."

Hermione snickered in spite of herself. Sniffling, she nodded. Holding her friend's gaze. "Thank you."

With a nod of her own in response, Reina turned on her heel and walked to the kitchen doors. She poked her head into the dining room and called for Antonin to return.

While they made breakfast, Hermione watched the pair. The way the moved around one another, the way the met each other's gazes with fleeting glances as they worked, how they chatted softly to one another.

She dropped her suddenly watering gaze to the cup of coffee before her. Such an odd feeling it was . . . she was so incredibly happy for them, and so sad that she'd never be like that with Thorfinn, again, it seemed to make every bit of her hurt.

When they were settled at the table with her, she half-heartedly picked at her breakfast, managing a few bites for Reina's sake.

Antonin could feel the silence in the room when they had all finished, like a physical weight pressing on his chest. He didn't want to discuss the necessary business that he had to with her, but who knew when Rabastan might pop in, unannounced, or if Alecto might try to swoop in and wedge herself between Antonin and _Thorfinn's pet_.

"There is something we need to talk about," he said, wincing when his voice came out grave.

The witches shared a look before returning their attention to him and nodding.

Clearing his throat, he shook his head and dropped his gaze to his empty plate. "Understand, I take no joy from this, but I had to think quick, and it is the only way to protect you from my . . . less-savory brothers in arms."

"Out with it," Hermione said, not liking how this sounded, at all.

Antonin's brows drew upward at her short tone—not that he could blame her—but he did not lift his gaze. "After the mission that Thorfinn botched, he'd thought the Dark Lord might kill him." Despite still staring into his plate, he was too aware of Hermione and Reina sharing an uncomfortable look, knowing full-well what the actual punishment for said botching had been. "He told me that if he died, he wanted me to take over ownership of you in his stead. And, of course, to watch over you, Reina."

"Is that all?" Hermione asked, her tone one of disbelief as she shook her head. This hardly seemed troubling, since he was probably the only person currently in her life she trusted, outside of Reina. She wanted to include Lucius Malfoy in that—as strange as that still was for her—but she couldn't, so long as she did not know what had gone wrong during the Resistance's strike against Umbridge Home.

"I told Rabastan of this condition immediately after we learned of Thorfi—of what happened. I felt I had no choice, as it would not be long before he, or someone worse, might've taken Thorfinn's absence as an invitation to come collect you for himself. And Rabastan has a _big_  mouth, no doubt every other Death Eater already has heard of my claim over you."

Hermione nodded. "Visits from Rabastan won't be particularly comfortable, but I suppose it's the best option I can hope for, for now."

Now it was Reina's turn for confusion. "Why?"

Antonin winced, sensing where Hermione was going with that statement. "He'll expect that I'm using her the same way we had to lead everyone to believe Thorfinn was using her. We'll have to put on a show if he ever drops by for drinks."

Reina's brows shot up. "Can't say I'm thrilled with that idea, but so long as _we_  all know it's only an act, then I really have no argument."

Hermione snorted a derisive giggle as she shrugged. "Oh, please, Reina, he's completely smitten with you. There's no way any show we have to put on for Rabastan, or anyone else, would ever be anything but an . . . ." Her words slid right off at the startled looks from the pair at the table with her.

"Oh," she said, suddenly feeling awkward. "You've not openly discussed feelings, yet, I see. I'll just . . . discreetly take my foot right back out of my mouth and go in the other room, or something."

Each of them shot out a hand, clamping them over Hermione's as she attempted to push up from the table.

"Or not," she whispered, settling back in her chair as they both pulled back their arms.

"We still need to finish this discussion," Antonin said, nodding.

"And then . . . ." Reina bit her lip, meeting the wizard's gaze. "Maybe Antonin and I will have a talk."

Hermione nodded, unbelievably grateful they'd not allowed her to throw herself out of the room. She didn't exactly fancy the idea of being a third wheel, but she also did not want to be alone with her thoughts, just now. There was no way she'd be able to think of anything but Thorfinn.

Giving herself a shake, she thought up the first question that would need an answer to make this charade successful. "But aren't you staying with Rabastan? Won't he think it's odd you're not simply taking me to stay with you at Lestrange Manor?"

Antonin nodded. "Actually, I've already considered that."

* * *

"It's not _just_  his pet," Antonin said to Rabastan with a distracted air as he finished packing his trunk and stood. "You know how dear Reina was to him. He had me promise to watch over her. That means I will need to be there, for whenever she chooses to return home."

Rabastan nodded. Antonin had disappeared for an entire day and a half after announcing that Hermione Granger was now his, as per Thorfinn's request. He imagined the Russian wizard had wasted little time testing out just how much fun his new little toy was.

"Well, once word reaches her about MacNair's death, I'm sure she'll be back."

Antonin gave Rabastan an appraising look as he hefted his trunk and started toward the door. "Is it that obvious that's what she was running from?"

"Wouldn't  _you_? Even I thought he was vile, and I'm self-aware enough to know that _that's_  saying something."

Antonin could not help but chuckle at that. "When you're sober, certainly."

His lips puckering as he thought, Rabastan nodded. "I _do_  have a bit of a problem, don't I?"

Setting down his trunk, Antonin whirled on his heel to face the other man. Clamping his hands over Rabastan's shoulders, he, again, gave him a once-over.

"What?" Rabastan asked, batting at Antonin's hands.

"Nothing, just shocked you're so different when you're not inebriated."

"Yes, well, thank Merlin it doesn't happen that often."

Sucking his teeth and nodding, Antonin pulled back. He made the offer before Rabastan could, as he knew the other man wasn't going to let him out of the house without saying it. "I trust we can expect you over for drinks, some night?"

"Now we're talking." Rabastan said, stroking his chin in thought. "Say, now that she's _your_ pet, any chance you would—?"

"Not on your life, Lestrange. Same rules as Thorfinn had for her. You can't play with her, because I would don't trust you not to damage her."

Rabastan rolled his eyes. "Oh, fine. Yes, just drinks, then. Tomorrow night."

Antonin forced a grin, somehow avoiding giving an eye-roll of his own. He sort of walked right into that, didn't he? Well, at least they had warning this time.

Once more, he hefted his trunk, and they made their way through the Manor to the front door. He spied an owl delivery, waiting to be seen to, from the corner of his eye as they went.

He—deliberately and quite visibly—ignored the notice as he asked. "Oh, by the way, you've not seen Isla recently, have you?"

"That lovely creature? Not since the party, I'd quite recall if I had. Why?"

Antonin shrugged. "Lucius said when he returned from that mess with Umbridge Home the other night, she was gone. No word, simply vanished with her belongings."

"How odd . . . . Did something happen?"

"No idea. Lucius isn't certain, either. He's out searching for her." Once more, Antonin shrugged, driving the point home. He couldn't know a response that would expose  _this_  Isla as a fake was in that pile of waiting missives, but that it might be was enough. Lucius had been  _more_  than helpful in keeping Reina safe, and Antonin could not say he wasn't grateful to him. "He said the last conversation he recalled having with her was when he mentioned that you were writing Eleanor to assure her of her daughter's safety."

Rabastan arched a brow at that. "I'm aware she and Lucius aren't on the best of terms, perhaps Isla didn't tell her mother she was staying at Malfoy Manor?"

Antonin nodded, holding in a grin. With Lucius removed from suspicion as effectively as he could manage, he finally took his leave.

* * *

Bill looked up from the plans Kingsley had spread across the table. It seemed fortifications of Azkaban had really been stepped up since Voldemort had established himself as Lord of Wizarding Britain.

Thorfinn had been immensely forthcoming with information about Hogwarts, and what the Death Eaters had done to it. Another two-unit strike was planned to take out the Dark Lord—a raid on Azkaban for the two-fold purpose of breaking out their comrades and drawing the Death Eaters from Hogwarts, and a stealth operation to slip into Hogwarts and dispatch the serpentine wizard while his forces were fractioned.

In fact, the  _former_  Death Eater had been so certain they wouldn't believe a word that fell from his lips that he offered to take Veritaserum—if they had any—before offering any input.

His devotion to Hermione and his sister was clear, they couldn't imagine there was anything more than a drive to return to them that had him so eager to help.

But, just now, he'd drifted away from the table and stood, his shoulder braced against the open doorway of the cottage. Thorfinn stared out toward the shore, his head shaking and nodding every now and again, as though carrying on some internal conversation.

Joining him at the entryway, Bill let out a sigh and nodded to nothing at all. "You're thinking about how much they're going to kill you when they find out you're still alive, aren't you?"

Thorfinn snorted a chuckle. "Actually, yeah. Hermione's little, but she's—"

"Terrifying when she's angry, yeah. I have met her, before, you know." The ginger-haired wizard's shoulders slumped. "I know it's not easy. But if they don't know—"

"Then the Dark Lord can't pluck the information from their heads, I'm painfully aware."

"Exactly. We can't know, not for sure, that he doesn't have some suspicion that you're not actually dead. No matter what he believes your relationship with Hermione is, it's logical that you'd turn to her and Reina, as he knows they're all you have. They're the _first_  place he'll look for confirmation; their lack of knowledge in this is the best way to protect  _them_  from being used to lure you into the open."

Wincing as he exhaled sharply through his nostrils, Thorfinn batted his head against the doorjamb. "I understand, I do. This is just . . . it's a _very_  odd situation."

Bill couldn't help a laugh of his own, then. "You're telling me? None of us expected to have _you_  on our side."

"Makes me wonder, though."

"Oh?"

Thorfinn heaved a sigh. "Well, provided this all works, the Dark Lord falls, Hermione and I both survive . . . . What the hell am I going to do with my life after that?"

The other wizard tapped his scarred chin in thought. "Have you ever considered working with dragons?"

Dark-gold brows shooting up, Thorfinn said, "Me? A dragon-handler? Can you even picture that?"

"Actually, yeah. You'd get on pretty well with my brother Charlie, I think."

Nodding, Thorfinn uttered another weary sigh. "Provided Hermione doesn't kill me even after surviving this mess."

Bill folded his arms across his chest, fixing his gaze on the shore, now, as well. "You know, she's actually had it pretty rough. First losing my brother, now thinking she's lost you." He flicked a glance in Thorfinn's direction. From the corner of his eye, Bill could see the other wizard's features crease with pain. "All I'm saying is . . . however she reacts to it when you two are reunited? Accept it, and be patient with her. She's only nineteen, and this is already twice, now, she's had to go through this pain."

Thorfinn's eyes drifted closed as he swallowed hard.

"It may be a while before she can forgive you for making her think she's lost the person she loves for the second time in her life."

Thorfinn turned entirely to draw the other man's attention back to him, meeting his gaze. "If she needs a thousand years to forgive me, I'll _find_  a way to give that to her."

Bill cringed and shook his head.

"What?"

"God help me," Bill said with a self-derisive snicker. "I can see why she fell for you. Tell anyone I said that, and I'll murder you, myself."

Thorfinn laughed and returned his attention to the shore. "I'll take it to my grave."

* * *

"There's not going to be a funeral, is there?" Hermione thought aloud, the realization jolting her.

She'd returned to her own room—she wanted, very much, to stay in Thorfinn's room, amongst his things, but she didn't think she could, just now.  _Now,_ everything simply hurt too much.

Reina paused in the flurry of motion that was her setting up dinner. They'd all gotten some sleep, and drank themselves into a stupor last night, trading stories about Thorfinn, but early this afternoon, Antonin had decided it was probably a good time to slip off to Lestrange Manor and give Rabastan his story.

In fact, he should return any time, now. She and Antonin had had a chat, but they were leaving what they actually were to one another unsaid until things around them had calmed.

"I doubt it," she said, shrugging. "I mean, there's no body. But . . . maybe a memorial service?"

"I hate that there's been no news."

Reina nodded. All they knew was what Antonin had told them, so far. Thorfinn had fallen in battle, but what had happened to his body was a mystery, his death was confirmed, however, by the Dark Lord's inability to sense him.

Caught in the crossfire seemed like a load of rubbish, as far as either of the witches was concerned. Neither of them could shake the feeling that Antonin wasn't being wholly forthcoming.

And since he wasn't with the Resistance, they couldn't imagine his motive in covering anything up. Which led them, quite naturally, back to Hermione's wondering from yesterday morning.

_What went wrong?_

The doorbell rang, then, and they exchanged a glance. Antonin would've just come in; Rabastan was presumably occupied with Antonin leaving his home.

"Well," Hermione said in a feigned cheery tone, "maybe word reached Alecto about Dolohov's claim, and she's come to kill me while he's out."

"Oh, like I'd let that mad cow near you?" Reina laughed, but drew her wand, all the same.

As Hermione made her way to the door, Reina—despite having every right, and logic on her side, to be there—hung back, secreting herself away behind a bend in the wall between the foyer and the parlor.

Hermione knew she should not be terribly surprised to find Lucius Malfoy there on the porch. But . . . just seeing him called to mind the lack of information they had on what had really happened.

Called to mind his assurance that Thorfinn might be harmed, but would be spared any lethal spells, when Umbridge Home fell.

She didn't need to glance back at Reina to know the other witch was thinking along the very same lines.

Of the many things Lucius expected when Miss Granger opened that door, among them had not been for both witches to aim their wands at him as they demanded in unison, "What happened to Thorfinn?!"


	24. Chapter 24

**Chapter Twenty-Four**

His elegantly gloved hands in the air, Lucius stepped into the house. He eyed each witch, in turn, as he walked, following Miss Granger's grudging nod toward the parlor.

Both young women gripped their weapons so tight, their knuckles were white, but their wand arms were painfully steady. Even without Thorfinn's half-joking advice to never argue with an angry witch, Lucius had already been aware, for many years, of that bit of sagely wisdom—Narcissa's temper had been a force of nature.

But, knowing where Antonin Dolohov had been staying since the raid on Umbridge Home, he could not say he understood their confusion. Unless . . . .

"Dolohov did not tell you what happened?"

Hermione was so angry, her jaw set tight enough to damn near lock shut. She didn't even shake her head or nod in reply, only forcing out a sharp, rattling exhalation from her nostrils.

Like some tiny, angry dragon, Lucius thought, too grateful he was not prone to laughing openly at his own amusing thoughts. Though, for how displeased the young woman appeared, she might as well be exhaling twin plumes of smoke.

Reina glanced at her friend from the corner of her eye. Realizing Hermione's state, Reina forced out the words, herself. "Thorfinn fell in battle—a battle in which  _you_ said he would not be killed—and his body is missing. We want to know what happened, and we want to know  _now,_  Mr. Malfoy!"

With a nod, he meshed together that information with what had happened on the battlefield just before Kingsley and Neville dragged Thorfinn away as fast as he could manage. They'd gone over the chain of events before he'd left Shell Cottage, but he'd not expected to be confronted like this.

Clearing his throat, he lowered his open hands slow in a placating gesture. "I will explain everything if you will only put down your wands."

"I'm not sure we can do that," Reina said, scowling in a way that caused her to resemble her brother to a frightening degree.

"Well, I can't say there's much incentive to keep opening my mouth when Miss Granger looks as though she might hex me into an early grave, should I so much as sneeze at the wrong moment."

Biting hard on the inside of her bottom lip, Reina let her wand arm fall to her side. Hermione seemed far less compliant.

With a deep breath, the blonde stepped over to the other witch. Gently resting her hand over Hermione's, she tried to push it down. Hermione would not budge, and Reina was rather certain that she wasn't going to get very far this way unless Hermione chose to concede. She'd had no idea the other girl was this strong.

After a strained moment, however, Hermione allowed Reina to press down her wand arm.

Relaxing—but only by increments, as Lucius Malfoy did not trust that the girl wouldn't still manage a shot at him if she didn't like what she heard—he moved over to sit in one of the arm chairs. He could not say he was terribly surprised when neither of the witches deigned to sit, as well.

"What you must first understand," he said, deciding to get as close to the truth as he could without raising further questions, "is that the Resistance did not kill Thorfinn. We did, however, take his body when we left the battlefield."

Hermione's jaw finally unlocked for that. "What? Why?"

Lucius made a show of slumping his shoulders as he sighed. "Because Thorfinn killed Dolores Umbridge. We knew if we left him there, and his complicity in letting Umbridge Home fall—so to the point of murdering its odious founder, himself—was discovered afterward, retribution might be visited upon the two of you in his absence. Taking Thorfinn, and his wand, removed that possibility, and would sew confusion about what  _actually_  happened in those last moments. I do not know who, precisely, shot the strike that the brought him down, but it was not us."

"So what  _happened_?"

Sitting back, he ran a hand down his face. "From what Dolohov is said to have told the Dark Lord, he believed Thorfinn was still alive when we took him. It appears the confusion of the scene did not need much assistance from us, after all. I believe he knows what Thorfinn did and tried to cover for him, claiming Umbridge was caught in the crossfire. I also believe the other Death Eaters misinterpreted the scene, aiming for wherever the strike that killed Umbridge had originated, and not realizing they were, in fact, hitting him."

Hermione did fall into one of the chairs, then. Setting aside her wand, she inhaled a shivering breath and pressed her hands to her face.

In a blink, Reina was beside her, smooshed into the chair with the other young woman. It was not hard to see that focusing on Hermione's pain was the easiest way to ignore her own.

As the blonde circled Hermione's shoulders with her arm, Hermione sniffled loudly and wiped her fingers across her cheeks. "Oh, that big idiot," she said with a sad little laugh as she shook her head. "Do you know he . . . he offered to kill her for me? The night of Rabastan's party. I sort of started to wonder where I'd gone 'round the bend that  _that_  sounded like the sweetest offer anyone had ever made me."

Reina forced a grin, nodding. "Sweet talking you with murder? Yes, I can imagine my brother doing that."

Hermione sniffled, again, letting her eyes drifted closed. "Mr. Malfoy, I'm sorry we—"

"No," he said in what was almost a lightly admonishing tone as he held up his hand. "Do not apologize. You are both hurting and angry, and not without cause. In fact, I would think less of the two of you, had you responded to my sudden appearance any other way."

"What . . . ?" Reina cleared her throat and started over. "What about my brother's body? We were just talking about whether or not we could even have a funeral."

"This will sound morbid, but we're keeping it, for the time being—preserved with a rather potent charm, of course." He nodded grimly. "At the moment, things are too unstable to allow anyone to potentially stumble over his body. It would throw into question everything the Dark Lord currently believes he knows about what happened when Umbridge Home fell. It's for  _everyone's_ safety that that does not happen. We have plans we will be putting into motion soon that should bring all this madness to an end."

"Is there anything we can do to help?"

He frowned thoughtfully as he shrugged. "Unfortunately, no. But, Miss Granger, you are still in an ideal position to overhear things which might escape my attention. When Rabastan visits, keep your ears open. And I'm afraid Miss Rowle will need to continue to lay-low, as the term goes. Just until we know for certain that the Dark Lord does not have plans for you."

"There's a pleasant thought."

Lucius nodded even as he winced at the idea of the witch paying for her brother's death, simply because Voldemort did not like situations which he could not control and would want an outlet for his wrath which was both cathartic and visceral.

Hermione asked in an impossibly small voice—she didn't want to think about what she was asking, since she would only have him back to say goodbye properly, "And after that,  _then_ we can have Thorfinn back?"

Exhaling slow, Lucius nodded, grateful the deceitful part of the discussion was over. Good Lord, what  _had_ happened to him? Deceit used to be so simple for him, but now he found it quite the taxing endeavor—at least to those whom he now trusted.

How very strange the world had become that that very short list of names now included Hermione Granger and the younger sister of Thorfinn Rowle.

Rather suddenly, Hermione gasped, pressing her hands to her mouth. Returning her attention to Lucius, she asked, "What about Luna and the baby? I mean, I'm sure they're all right, since you're so composed, but . . . ." She left off with a cringe and a shrug, as though she'd not been on the verge of breaking down into tears only heartbeats past.

He would ignore that her leave-off also hinted that she expected him to be composed no matter what—after all, he was rather certain it had been obvious, at least once or twice, in the times leading up to the War, that  _that_ was not always so.

"I did wonder when you'd get around to that, Miss Granger," he said, forcing a small, tight-lipped smile. "Mother and baby are fine. In fact, I have just returned from seeing them to safety. Draco, unfortunately, had to return to Hogwarts."

Hermione let out a shuddering breath as she nodded. Even with their loss, it was wonderful to think something good had come out of that night. All those witches were free and safe, now, and Luna—Luna and  _Draco_ , she still had trouble imaging it—had a healthy baby.

And Umbridge was dead by Thorfinn's hand!

Between her sorrow and her joy, she didn't know how she wasn't bursting into tears, right now.

"I have a grandson," Lucius said with a smirk, as though he did not quite believe it.

The witches exchanged a look, nodding to each other.

"Tell us about him," Hermione said.

Reina tacked on, "Please?"

With a happy sigh, the wizard settled back even deeper into the seat. "She named him Xenophilius, if you can believe that."

"For her father." Hermione offered a sad but knowing smile.

Lucius nodded. " Xenophilius Malfoy. Certainly is a mouthful. Looks just like Draco. Can't tell, yet, if he'll have his mother's eyes, or his father's, of course." There was a suspicious watery shimmer in his grey eyes as he said softly, "And Narcissa would've adored him."

At the notice of that shimmer, Hermione said, "I think we could all probably use a drink, right about now."

* * *

Antonin was more than a little surprised to arrive at the Rowle Estate and find the three in the parlor with a few bottles of Fire Whiskey one of them must've fetched from the study.

Hermione and Reina—squished into one chair—looked up at his arrival. "Antonin!" they said in obviously inebriated unison.

Setting down his trunk, he shook his head at the spectacle. "Oh,  _God._ " They'd just gotten pissed last night! At this rate, the aftermath of the War was going to turn these witches into unabashed alcoholics.

"Don't be cross with them," Lucius said, shaking finger. Though clearly a bit tipsy, himself, the wizard was not nearly as intoxicated as Hermione and Reina. "They're grieving."

Propping his hands on his hips, Antonin furrowed his brow. "I'm not cross with them. I understand; I'm just not certain _this_  sort of irresponsibility should be encouraged."

Reina snorted a giggle at his serious tone, which prompted Hermione to burst out laughing.

Antonin let out a sigh as he slapped a palm against his forehead.

"Sorry," Hermione said, which Reina immediately followed with, "We're sorry." From there, they each apologized a few more times, not a single repetition sounding the least bit sincere, of course.

His lips turning upward in a mirthless grin, Antonin nodded. Choosing to ignore them for the moment, he turned his attention directly on Lucius. "Rabastan is taken care of . . . so long as he's given no reason to question any further."

"Oh?" The silver-haired wizard's brows drew upward.

"Yes, I mentioned  _Isla's_  curious departure and that you are searching for her. Haven't the foggiest notion where she might've gone."

"Well, then," Lucius said with a nod as he set aside his glass and stood. "I suppose I had better get to keeping up appearances."

Antonin half-expected the witches to making fretful cooing noises over the loss of their new drinking companion. However, they were caught up in their own slurring, whispered conversation about . . . . Merlin knew what, actually, he couldn't make heads or tails of the murmured gibberish drifting toward him.

He saw Lucius out and then returned to the parlor. Puffing out his cheeks, Antonin nodded. "I suppose I'll go put on some coffee for you two little wrecks."

The witches had the grace to try and look abashed. For all five seconds, before they started giggling, once more.

* * *

Hermione was not thrilled to have Rabastan's company the following evening. It was hardly as though she had Reina's luxury of hiding in the other wing of the house—no one among Voldemort's ranks, save for Antonin and Lucius, were even aware Reina had returned. And, as per Lucius advisement, they were all content to keep it that way.

They put on airs well enough, presenting an image Rabastan would find believable. And, though Hermione had largely divorced herself from the moment, she could not help that perching there, on Antonin Dolohov's knee as she sipped her drink, she was reminded far too sharply and painfully of sitting exactly like this with Thorfinn.

Rabastan was oddly subdued, as well. Hermione, however, did not for one moment think that it was because of how odd and unsettled anyone  _normal_ would feel sitting in their dead friend's home as though nothing had happened. For that matter, she wasn't even certain Rabastan and Thorfinn would've considered one another friends.

Hermione turned, ducking her head toward Antonin to speak into his ear. "Is it just me, or is he acting a bit . . . quiet?"

He pulled her back enough to meet her gaze. "No," he said in a whisper, "I noticed it, too. I'll ask—"

"You certainly didn't waste time mourning your former owner, Pet."

Antonin's eyes shot wide for a split-second at the flash of rage that overtook Hermione's expression in that moment. Holding her gaze, still, he said quietly, "Don't react."

Drawing in a calming breath and forcing it out slow, Hermione thought back on the image she'd presented at that abysmal dinner party. Though she stayed leaned into Antonin, the witch turned her attention on Rabastan.

"I thought you were well aware that I'm nothing if not pragmatic, Mr. Lestrange. I have no control over my life, or what becomes of me, so I'm left with little choice but to make the best of my circumstances."

His brows drawing upward, Rabastan nodded. "Yes, I may have forgotten that."

"We were discussing that you don't seem quite yourself, tonight, Mr. Lestrange."

With a sigh, Rabastan leaned his elbow on the armrest of his chair and propped his fist beneath his chin. "Well, sweet creature, I will admit I am rather preoccupied this evening."

"Oh?" Antonin said, curiosity pinching his features.

"It seems whoever the Isla Fawley-Black we all met was, she was an impostor."

"What?" the pair across from him asked in perfectly aghast unison.

If Rabastan found their response  _too_  perfect, he gave no outward sign of it. "I received word from Eleanor today that Isla has been in America with her, all this time. In fact, they were at the theatre together, the night of my party. Lucius was baffled when I showed him her letter."

"Well, then you're both stupid."

Rabastan let out a surprised cough just as he was taking a sip of his drink. Antonin said in a warning tone, "Hermione . . . ."

"I beg your pardon?" their guest asked, uncertain what to make of her statement.

"Well, Lucius is one of the Dark Lord's inner circle, isn't he? Even falling out of favor, he's still close to You Know Who, and that's pretty much public knowledge." She sighed and settled more firmly back against her  _new owner_ —he was no Thorfinn, but at least she could admit Antonin was comfy.

Rabastan took a long swig and then nodded. "Go on."

"I just think that with him still being involved in the Dark Lord's activities, and being so lonely, what with Draco being confined to Hogwarts, and Narcissa—well, you know—he would be the perfect target for the Resistance to try and sneak someone into the Death Eaters' midsts." When she could just tell he had a question, she addressed it, hoping to dismiss the inquiry out-of-hand. "Of course, how whoever it was would get her hands on the real Isla's hair is beyond me, but I'm sure it couldn't be too difficult. I mean, I'm assuming the culprit was using Polyjuice potion, otherwise no one would immediately think them Eleanor Fawley-Black's daughter, no matter how good the disguise, based on their family resemblance, alone. All they'd have needed is _one_  contact in the States to find her, pluck a hair and send it back home."

"She's right," Antonin said with an approving nod—though he was a little startled with how quick Hermione'd pulled all that together.

Rabastan set aside his glass and leaned forward in his seat. Bracing his elbows on his knees, he clasped his hands before him as he fixed his gaze on Hermione's.

Her eyes widening at the unexpected scrutiny, she couldn't help but ask, "What?"

"You were on friendly terms with her. Did she give you  _any_  indication who she really is?"

Keeping her features schooled, the witch shook her head. "I'm sorry, I never had reason to suspect the Isla I met was anyone other than who she claimed to be." Which was certainly truth, but for the sake of maintaining her feisty,  _if pragmatic_ , façade, Hermione tacked on, "But if I did know, and she was with the Resistance, it's hardly a thing  _I'd_  feel compelled to tell a Death Eater, don't you think?"

He sat back with a haughty sniffle as he nodded. "Well, at least she's honest."

* * *

"Bring the Mudblood to me."

Antonin felt a shock of cold course through him at the Dark Lord's command the next night. "My Lord?"

With a coughing, wheezing laugh, Voldemort shook his head at his follower's surprise. "If the Undesirables are so very desperate to have her back that they would kill one of mine in their attempt to locate her, then I shall use her presence in this castle to draw them to us. Bring her here, and make the journey as visible and public as possible. I want  _ensure_  word of my new guest reaches them."

Antonin wanted to protest—to think of something, anything, he might stay to stop this. But there was nothing, and he knew if he said anything, at all, the Dark Lord was likely to punish him for his insubordination, _and_  send someone who'd be far less kind about the matter to fetch Hermione.

He'd made that mistake with Reina, he would not let it happen twice.

Nodding, he offered a sweeping bow. "As you command, My Lord."

* * *

Neville burst through the door of Shell Cottage shortly after sunrise, causing every occupant that was awake to turn their wand on him. Upon seeing his face, they all lowered their weapons. Those startled into consciousness by his abrupt entrance grumbled and scowled at him from where the lay in bedrolls tucked against the walls.

Thorfinn was the last to comply with setting down his wand, but he still did so of his own volition. Shaking his head, he sighed. "It really is amazing that you lot don't accidentally hex one another more often."

"It's Hermione," Neville said, sparing little time for how this immediately sharpened the former Death Eater's focus. "I just saw her was being  _marched_ through Hogsmeade."

Thorfinn's brow furrowed. "Why on earth . . . ?"

Neville frowned, throwing up his hands as he shook his head. He didn't like Thorfinn Rowle, but he trusted the imposing man's feelings toward his friend. "Lucius said You Know Who ordered her brought to him. She's to be his  _guest_ at Hogwarts."

The golden haired wizard ground his teeth, his jaw clenching so tight it was a wonder he could get out the words as he asked, "What the  _bloody_  hell for?"

"To draw us out."

"Well, then it's working."

"Rowle!" Kingsley hissed in a warning tone. He didn't want to leave Hermione in Voldemort's hands, either, but jumping in like this might not be the wisest course of action.

Thorfinn pinned Kingsley with a hard stare. "The plans for the raid on Azkaban . . . . Are they ready?"

Exchanging a glance with Bill, who nodded in response, Kingsley said, "As they'll ever be."

"Good. Then you and the others might want to move on that. Weasley and Longbottom, you'd better keep up, because  _I'm_  not waiting."

Without so much as a backward glance, Thorfinn stormed out the door.


	25. Chapter 25

**Chapter Twenty-Five**

For the first time since Bill had met Thorfinn Rowle, he found he genuinely feared the other wizard as they popped into existence some distance away from the entrance to the Hogwarts grounds. They hadn't Apparated right to the boundary line, to minimize any potential witnesses to their abrupt appearance.

There were only three of them, after all—the fewer people they encountered as they slipped into the castle, the less likely commotion was to ensue. Even if it did still lead to some bodies needing to be hidden along the way.

Neville sent off his serpentine Patronus—a change the ephemeral, shimmering whisper of energy had taken on after he'd slain Nagini and assured himself of his own courage—to slip into the castle ahead of them, unseen, and warn the Malfoys of the rather spontaneous expediting of their plans. And it was in that moment that Bill noticed the palpable sense of anger emanating from the former Death Eater. So thick, the emotion was like a blanket around Thorfinn.

Well, if one had set that blanket ablaze, and the smoking tendrils from the flames were seeping out to choke all those around him as Thorfinn, himself, stubbornly refused to drop the fiery material, that was.

Meeting the other wizard's gaze, Bill nodded, feeling he understood—after all, he would probably be just as enraged were it Fleur in there. "Hermione's going to be fine. He's using her as bait, so we know she's alive, and beyond that . . . ." Bill swallowed hard. He thought of her like a little sister, often lumped together in his memories with Ginny and Ron. The idea that Voldemort might _only_  be content with keeping her alive, without care for what condition his more loyal followers might leave her in, was not a pleasant one.

Marshalling his focus, Bill pushed himself to continue his statement. "Beyond that, she's strong. She'll be able to hang on until we can get to her."

Thorfinn glowered, shaking his head. "You think I don't know that? That feisty little sprite of a witch is stronger than any of us, that's for sure." In fact, he was starting to think that was a testament to the women in his life. Hermione, Reina . . . even what little he could recall of his mother, she'd been strong, too. "I'm angry at myself. I felt that she was moving off the grounds of my family's estate, but I didn't think anything of it. I figured perhaps Dolohov was taking her along with him somewhere. I knew, yet I stayed where I was. If I'd gone—"

"You'd have exposed yourself, and you'd be dead now for betraying You Know Who, and Hermione would still be trapped in this place to draw _us_ out," Neville said, his tone matter-of-fact. It was the most he'd spoken directly to Thorfinn the entire time. Working with a former Death Eater made his skin crawl, but that he was a changed man was evident. And if _they_  couldn't allow forgiveness, than they were no better than the enemy.

With a grim, grudging nod, Thorfinn turned his attention in the direction of the castle grounds. "We're lucky. It's rather early. Most of the other Death Eaters aren't here at the moment. But that means we'll have to slip in fast—before the others breach Azkaban. The Dark Lord will summon his forces, and dispatch them _to_  the prison from here. It'll be easier if we're already inside the castle while that's happening. But we have to move, now."

"No." Neville frowned; Thorfinn's reasoning made sense, but they couldn't go just yet. "We need to wait for word from Draco."

Thorfinn held in a dissatisfied rumbling noise that sounded suspiciously like a growl. Then, as though on cue a . . . .

Thorfinn's brow furrowed as he watched the silvery shade of a creature creep toward them through the air. "Is that a weasel?"

Both wizards with him snickered. "Yeah, it's actually a ferret," Bill said.

Coughing out a surprised chuckle, Thorfinn nodded. "Draco Malfoy's Patronus is a ferret."

"The amazing thing?" Neville said, sounding awed as the creature nearly reached them. "He couldn't even create one until after he found Luna in that awful place. He had no true,  _happy_  memories to conjure one up before she saw the good in him."

That . . . that actually impressed Thorfinn. Made him wonder a little, too, if he might be able to conjure one up himself, now, because of Hermione. Certainly, he had happy memories with his sister, but he wondered if that was the same, since even the happiest of memories with Reina were tinged with a sadness, now, because his entire adult life had been about protecting her, and he'd failed in that so spectacularly.

Draco must've suspected that his Patronus' form would raise an eyebrow from at least one of them, because he prefaced his message with the words, "Now, if you're all done laughing about this stupid ferret." There were a few heartbeats of silence—presumably to allow them to sober. "She's in the dungeons, seemingly unharmed, so far. But that's what worries us. You would think he wouldn't care if she was 'damaged in transport,' so to speak, since she's just a lure, but he seems to want her  _un_ damaged, and no one knows why. Word has not yet reached us about Azkaban, so _now_  is the time to slip into the castle."

As the ferret faded from view, the three looked around at each other. Thorfinn thought back on everything he'd heard or learned of the Dark Lord's plans over these months . . . . Over details and snippets of conversation he'd dismissed because they'd seemed frivolous or unimportant.

And then, in a single, sickening crunch of information, he understood.

As he pulled the hood of his cloak over his head, he met their gazes, in turn. "I know why he wants her unharmed."

Like that, he turned and bolted for the castle.

Bill and Neville immediately followed, Thorfinn's tone sending a chill through both of them.

* * *

_Several hours earlier_

She stirred, swatting half-heartedly at whatever attempted to wake her. This was far deeper than she'd expected to be able to sleep following losing Thorfinn, and though she could feel herself pulling out of slumber, she was reluctant to commit to waking, just yet.

But then she heard Dolohov's voice, urgent and slightly panicked, as he whispered her name in her ear. She'd never thought Antonin Dolohov was a man who could even experience panic, and the awareness of him being unsettled jarred her awake against her will.

Sitting up and grumbling under her breath, she pushed back the covers. Rubbing at her eyes with the back of her hand, she said, "I swear, Dolohov, the whole of Britain had better be on fire."

He opened his mouth, but then shut it, again. If only they could be so lucky. He knew his silence would speak volumes about the actual gravity of the situation, however.

Sure enough, at his continued reticence, Hermione forced open her eyes and looked up at him. "What's wrong?"

He hadn't even woken Reina—he'd left a note beside her bed, explaining the situation. He'd known, if the other witch caught wind of this as it was happening, she'd either insist on going with Hermione, or she'd refuse to let him take her, which would only make things worse for  _all_ of them. Much, much worse.

But here he was, having to troop one of the only people in this world he could consider a friend into the Dark Lord's custody. The only thing he could really do was stick by her and make sure no harm came to her.

"The Dark Lord has ordered me to bring you to him."

She was out of bed and on her feet in a blink. Neither of them were certain when she'd grabbed her wand, but it was already in her hand, not aimed at him, but gripped tight in her fist, all the same.

"Why?"

He pretended not to hear the shiver in her otherwise demanding tone as she asked. Swallowing hard, he shook his head. "He believes the Resistance—he believes your friends—killed Thorfinn to get to you."

Her shoulders drooped as she understood. She should've suspected, as well, that Voldemort would think precisely that, given the evidence, or lack thereof, at the scene. "He's using me to lure them out."

Antonin nodded. "I have to make it public, so they catch wind of it."

Her eyes drifting closed, she nodded. She knew exactly what that meant. She also knew she could not mention that with spies already in his ranks, they might  _already_  have caught wind of it. At this point, she doubted very much that Dolohov would raise his wand to defend Voldemort, but she couldn't risk him exposing the Malfoy's subterfuge, either.

Though it felt a little like cutting off her own hand, she set down her wand. The wand Thorfinn'd had made for her. She knew if she was caught with a wand, she'd be punished, and so would Dolohov as her new  _owner_.

Forcing a gulp down her throat, she slipped her fingers around her locator charm. Thorfinn might be gone, but she would be damned if anyone was going to part her from this one, precious, tie to him.

"I'll get the leash," she said in a low, hissing whisper as she gripped her hand tighter around the necklace.

His dark eyes closing, Antonin lowered his head as she pushed past him headed for the door. "I'm so sorry, Hermione. But I promise you, I'll do whatever I can to protect you."

She glanced back at him over her shoulder. "I know." With that, she disappeared out the door to retrieve the much-hated item.

* * *

_Now_

Hermione heard the rattling breath of that  _thing_  that had the audacity to still call itself a wizard as he entered the dungeons. Exhaling sharply through her nostrils, she turned her back toward the door to her cell.

She refused to make eye contact with him. If he wanted to pick anything out of her head, she wasn't going to make it easy for him.

"Well, Mudblood, I trust you're being treated well," he said, his voice even more rasping than it had been at Rabastan's party.

"Shockingly, I am." She shrugged. "If one ignores that I was very nearly dragged through the streets of Wizarding Britain on a leash." She and Dolohov had made a  _good_ show of it for the Dark Lord's sake, after all.

"You reputation for spirit proceeds you." Though she could not see him, she guessed from his tone that a smirk was twisting his cruel, barely-existent lips. "One in your predicament usually does not behave this way, you're aware?"

He needed her alive, and for some reason wanted her unharmed. As she saw it, she was free to say to him whatever she liked. "Well, if you're expecting me to cower in fear, or grovel at the  _Dark Lord's_  feet, then . . . sorry, maybe later. I'm a bit busy admiring the brickwork, just now."

"Tell me, aside from the obvious," he said, genuine curiosity in his voice, "what gives you such courage to speak to the Lord of Wizarding Britain in such a way?"

Hermione turned her head, only enough that he could see her grin over her shoulder. He wanted her as a prisoner, but she wanted him to comprehend that being trapped had precious little to do with bars and cages and leashes.

And that no one else knew; he thought their ignorance a convenient protection. Lovely circumstance, that.

"Because, I know your secret."

"Oh?" His naked brows shot up at that, she was sure. "Do tell."

"You're not  _dying_. You are already dead."

He sputtered out a sudden, exasperated cough at her words. "Nonsense," he said through his hacking. "I am too powerful to die. You were called the brightest witch of your age. You should know perfectly well I yet have time."

"What you have is sheer force of will." She turned her head back, facing the wall, once more. "Your precious Horcruxes. Do you think Harry learned all about them on his own? I know how much of yourself you invested. I know how much soul you've got left rattling around inside you. And that's nothing.  _Nothing_  is left inside you. I know the  _Lord_  of Wizarding Britain is nothing more than a body waiting to fall into its grave."

She gritted her teeth against a sudden wash of blinding pain. As Hermione struggled to breath around it—not holy unfamiliar, she'd felt the effects of the Cruciatus Curse, before—she somehow managed to keep some small modicum of her composure. Though, through the agony, she felt a glimmer of joy in knowing she'd struck a nerve.

"I will warn you this once to keep such thoughts to yourself, Mudblood. I require you unharmed, that does not mean I will not inflict upon you miseries that won't damage you."

"Why is that?" she managed to force out the question amid the pain.

"You have the strength to speak in such torment?"

Honestly, she was in so much pain, she thought she could bite off her own tongue just now, and she wouldn't even notice 'til later. But Voldemort didn't need to know she'd beg him to stop if she thought it'd do any good.

"Sorry if the idea of . . . ." She paused, letting out a shivering gasp. "Of  _true_ strength is something that puzzles you, but  _this_  is what it looks like. Someone less powerful, standing up to the likes of  _you_."

Shockingly, at that, he lowered his wand. It took everything in her not to collapse to her knees in relief at the pain ending.

"Less powerful. And  _far_ more foolish," he said in parting as he turned and stalked back out of the dungeons.

Alone, now, Hermione let herself sink down to sit, her limbs aching from his abuse. She found it strange and alarming that he wanted her physically undamaged for some reason, but she couldn't think on that, now. Breathing calmly to steady herself, she nodded.

"You've no soul left," she said, reaffirming the knowledge for herself. "All _I_  have to do now is deprive you of what's left of your body."

* * *

Antonin was on a beeline back to the dungeons the moment he saw the Dark Lord's exit. That was, until Lucius Malfoy—at the castle surprisingly early in the day for what was typical of him—caught him around the elbow and started tugging in the opposite direction.

"Malfoy," he said through clenched teeth as pulled out of the silver-haired wizard's grasp. "I don't time for whatever this is. I need to get to—"

"Miss Granger is probably the safest person in this castle, right now."

Antonin frowned, his brow furrowing. "I'm not certain I understand."

Lucius glanced around, ensuring no one was about to overhear them. "You will understand everything in a moment, but I need you to come with me."

Rolling his eyes at the murky circumstances, Antonin conceded. He followed Lucius into one of the long-unused corridors that branched off from the lower staircase—the ones that had been in disrepair long before the ravages of the Battle of Hogwarts had had a chance to wreck the place.

Lucius gripped the falling-off handle of a door that appeared as though it might just break free of its hinges any moment. "Now, before we go in. I am going to caution you. Listen  _before_ deciding whether or not to act."

Antonin's frown deepened. "All right," he said, his dark eyes narrowing.

As Lucius  _finally_  opened the bloody door, Antonin honestly wasn't certain what to expect. Inside he found the younger Malfoy, a confused looking Theo, and three cloaked figures with their backs to him.

Though he couldn't be certain, he thought the tallest of them seemed familiar. It was something in the height, the width of the shoulders, the way he stood.

The sound of the door closing echoed dully in his ears, suddenly an oddly distant noise, as Antonin said in a mystified whisper, "Thorfinn?"

Those familiar shoulders slumping just a hair, the tallest one turned and dropped back his hood. Certain enough, there stood a very much alive Thorfinn Rowle.

Antonin didn't know if he wanted to hug the friend he'd never expected to see again . . . or punch that very same friend for letting him believe he was dead. The dark-haired wizard clamped a hand over his mouth.

Oh, dear, sweet Merlin . . . . Hermione and Reina were going to kill the _lot_  of them for the subterfuge when this was over.

"What—?"

"Wait," Thorfinn cautioned, holding up a hand.

The other two figures turned, dropping back their hoods.

Antonin's eyes widened as he recognized their faces. Yet . . . they were not holding wands on him. The Malfoys were not surprised at the identities of Thorfinn's companions. Theo, well, Theo still looked out of sorts, and Antonin could only imagine the young man was simply having trouble believing whatever it was that was actually going on, here.

"You're with the Resistance?" Though, Antonin hadn't really said it like a question.

Clasping his hands before him, Thorfinn nodded as he sucked his teeth. "Seeing as there's only two sides in this? Yes."

"But he couldn't detect your Mark, how did—?"

"Long story short, stasis charm to trick him," Neville cut in, impatient, as it was. There was just way too much backstory to get into right now. If they all survived this mess, Dolohov could have his explanations, then.

But, with those in this room all working on the same side, he thought there was little chance of any of them _not_  surviving. He wasn't going to do any of them the detriment of getting his hopes up, however.

As the scarred-up Weasley—blast it all, Antonin could never keep all the gingers in that family line straight—opened his mouth to speak, the Death Eaters in the room all winced. All but one.

"Have to say, I don't miss _that_ ," Thorfinn said with a quiet chuckle.

Antonin looked about the room, once more. That wasn't right, he, Theo, and the Malfoys were already in the castle. If _they_  felt the Dark Lord's summons, that had to mean . . . .

"He's summoning  _everyone_?"

Bill started, again. "Before we go any further than this, we need to know if you're willing to stand against You Know Who."

Antonin turned his attention to Theo—Lucius had led him here. He could only imagine that was because the Malfoys had already defected. Not that anyone could blame them after what they'd been forced to do to Narcissa.

Theo nodded, shrugging. "I already gave them my answer," he said, his voice low. "We both know I never was very good as being a Death Eater, anyway."

Antonin hesitated out of sheer habit. He'd trained himself for so long to see his purpose to the Dark Lord above all else. Yet, somehow, in these months, he'd understood the flaw in that on such a fundamental level that he was no longer certain what to believe.

But he knew that . . .  _creature_  could not stay in power. A man—if he could still be called that—who thought Umbridge Home was a good idea, who considered brutalizing an innocent woman like Reina a suitable punishment for another person's failure, who saw someone like Hermione as nothing but a pawn.

Antonin nodded. "I'm willing."

"Good, we'll talk fast. If you're not in front of him soon, he'll wonder what kept you."

Antonin nodded, once more, listening intently as they explained what was happening. As they finished, however, he noticed that, left to his own thoughts, Thorfinn looked quite troubled, indeed.

Azkaban, like the Dark Lord, needed to fall. Antonin understood that, too well. That place had long outlived its purpose.

And he knew they needed to go, but not before he found out what else was wrong. "Thorfinn? What is it?"

Thorfinn exchanged a look with his new comrades. Bill nodded, while Neville shrugged and rolled his eyes.

"It's the Dark Lord's plans for Hermione."

"You mean about her not being harmed?" Antonin asked, going on when Thorfinn nodded. "Yes, I found that strange, too."

"I think I know what that's about. Remember months ago, he was experimenting with resurrecting corpses?"

Antonin's eyes shot wide. He had the strangest feeling he knew what his friend was getting at, though the thoughts in his head refused to connect.

"We know how frail he's gotten. I think . . . he was looking for a way to survive beyond death in one of  _those_ bodies, but the process never succeeded. He couldn't make an already dead body work properly. So—"

"So he wants a live one." Antonin held Thorfinn's gaze as he spoke in utter disbelief.

"One who's strong in _just_  the way he'd admire. It's why he wants to keep her undamaged. He's not letting anything happen to her, at least not until the moment his own body gives out."

Antonin could remember so clearly that chilling moment at Rabastan's party. The way the Dark Lord had regarded Hermione—the one person at the celebration he would've thought the serpentine wizard would show the  _least_ consideration—with a grudging respect.

The words didn't feel real as they fell from Thorfinn's lips; he hadn't actually said this part aloud as he'd explained it to the others a little while earlier. But they needed to be said, and  _he_  needed to be the one to say them.

"I believe he somehow means to graft his will  _into_  Hermione at the moment of his own death."


	26. Chapter 26

**Chapter Twenty-Six**

Antonin, Theo, and the Malfoys arrived in the Headmaster's office barely in time to stave off any suspicious looks for their late arrival.

Alecto was notably displeased as she turned her head to glare at them over her shoulder. Her expression went from displeased to absolutely livid as she made eye-contact with Antonin. Clearly, she'd heard about Thorfinn's post-mortem transfer of  _property_ , and was none too pleased that the Dark Lord's ruling meant she could not casually slip into the dungeons and  _dispatch_  the troublesome younger witch.

"What took you lot so long?" she asked in a hissing whisper, trying to sound civil and failing miserably

Theo remained silent while the Malfoys shared an exasperated look. "Had to pull this one here," Draco said, nodding in Antonin's direction, "away from his new pet."

Her eyes narrowed, but any spiteful words she might've spewed were cut off by Rabastan's quiet chuckle from the other side of her. "Can't say I blame him."

There was a sharp crack from the front of the room, calling them all to attention. Everyone snapped their heads forward to see Voldemort clutching a wooden box in one, bony hand, still pressed tight to the desk from slamming it down. Even with his dwindling strength, the sound had been so biting, it was a wonder the box hadn't shattered into splinters at the impact.

Assured all eyes and ears were on him, now, the Dark Lord let out a rattling sigh. "Azkaban is under attack."

Though the response to this was mostly awed silence, Antonin felt rather certain the hushed  _Well, shit_ , someone whispered into the void had come from Rabastan.

"While I cannot help but find the timing of this breach suspicious, it  _cannot_  be ignored. Forces must be divided—"

"My Lord." Antonin pushed forward, Theo and the Malfoys following in his wake. "Please forgive my impertinence," he said, bowing his head as he dropped to one knee in a proper show of fealty. "We will stay behind to safeguard the castle. I understand your caution, but the majority  _may_  be needed at the prison."

The group that had come to the foreground collectively held their breath as the Dark Lord sat back. As though time was not of the essence just now, he steepled his fingers before his mouth and considered each of them carefully.

* * *

_"The Dark Lord's_ truest  _flaw," Lucius said, "is that for all his cunning and intellect, he is hubris personified. If we volunteer to stay behind, he will believe Draco and I are trying to get back in his good graces after Narcissa's betrayal, because in his mind, we would not dare cross him. As for you, Dolohov, he'll believe you do not wish to risk leaving Hermione to be rescued by the Resistance, should the assault on Azkaban be a ruse."_

_Theo looked about nervously. "What of me?"_

_The elder Malfoy gave his son's friend a pained once-over. "Theodore, you are many things. A fighter is not among them. He is likely to believe you would be more comfortable in the fray if the fight is brought to you, rather than being flung into combat."_

_Nodding, Theo exchanged a glance with Draco. "That . . . yeah, that does sound like me."_

* * *

They all waited for what seemed forever—each fearing their move too bold, too telling—before the Dark Lord finally spoke.

"Very well. The rest of you, to Azkaban,  _immediately_!"

The others filed from the room in a blink. Those left behind awaited instruction. Yet, when the Dark Lord seemed to hesitate, the other three looked to Lucius—former favored of Voldemort, as he was—for guidance.

Yet, as Lucius opened his mouth while the group made their way to the door, the Dark Lord said, "You four . . . wait a moment."

Antonin felt something at those simple words that he was hardly accustomed to, anymore. A ripple of genuine fear coiling in the pit of his stomach.

* * *

Hermione was certain she heard some sort of commotion filtering down to her from the upper levels of the castle. Frowning and shaking her head, she stepped back from the bars.

Trying to hit the lock with a loose brick hadn't done any good. Though, she was more surprised the ruckus she was making with her attempts hadn't drawn any Death Eaters into the dungeons to investigate. It seemed even the one stationed to guard the cells had been called from his post.

She could only guess whatever that commotion was, it was far more pressing than her fruitless efforts. And besides, it probably was not the first time they'd overheard one of their  _guests_ trying the very same thing.

It might've seemed a foolish attempt, but the cell doors had mundane locks. The only thing that could really prevent a breakout would be the prisoner's lack of tools.

Or . . . .

She closed her eyes and drew a steadying breath. Whatever the case, it allowed the peaceful atmosphere in the dungeons that was precisely what she needed.  _Focus, Hermione, focus._ Pressing her hands together in front of her, she rubbed her palms nervously, though the sensation was grounding. She'd performed small feats of wandless magic before, she could do it again, now.

The worst that could happen would be that it didn't work.

She exhaled slow and deep, nodding to herself.  _Concentrate, you can do this._ What she was going to do when she was out . . . well, she'd cross that bridge when she got to it.

Stepping up to the door, once more, she reached one arm through the bars. After another few heartbeats to steady and calm herself, she closed her eyes and pressed her palms to either side of the lock.

" _Alohomora_."

Never had there been a sound as beautiful— _and_ as nerve wracking—as the sliding click of the lock opening.

She didn't give herself time to rejoice, or panic, however. Her fingers trembling just a little in her bizarrely anxious excitement, she pushed open the door, wincing at the whining of the hinges. But, she told herself as she slipped out of the cell, if no one had come down for the sound of her trying to smash the lock with a bloody  _brick_ , she doubt a moment of squeaking metal would draw attention.

However . . . pausing, she listened. Whatever had been going on moments earlier had already passed, because the castle was suddenly, unsettlingly quiet.

Hurrying to the door that led into the dungeons, she pressed her ear to the wood. Hermione held her breath and waited what seemed like forever _._

_Nothing_.

Yet, as she pulled the door open and peeked out, she saw a large, cloaked figure rushing in her direction. She moved fast to close the door again, hoping she wasn't spotted—she had no idea where to hide, maybe she could slip back into her cell and pretend she'd never opened it—without catching a glimpse of who it was coming toward her.

But the person, with one word, proved they had caught a glimpse of _her_.

One word that was enough to bring tears to her eyes, even as she thought her heart might stop in her chest.

"Princess?"

She didn't want to believe what she was hearing. Swallowing hard, she pressed a hand against the door. "Th—Thorfinn?"

"You going to open that door and kick my Viking arse, or what?"

Hermione clamped a hand over her mouth to muffle a sob that was equal parts joy and disbelief. Letting her trembling fingers drop from her face to press against her heart, she pulled open the door with her free hand.

There he stood, an apologetic half-smile curving his lips. He allowed her to tug him across the threshold by the front of his cloak, the slamming of the door behind him startlingly loud in the silence of the castle.

Yet, there was no time to respond to the discordant noise as she quite literally jumped on him. Her arms wrapped around his neck so tight to hold herself against him it was a wonder she didn't strangle him by accident as she pressed quick, excited kisses to his face.

He couldn't help but laugh at her adorable mauling of him. Just as he meant to slip his arms around her and return her embrace, however, she dropped back to the floor.

"How _dare_  you Thorfinn Rowle?! How—how could you make me think you were dead! And Reina! She came home and  _this_  was the welcome she got!"

Thorfinn winced, braced for exactly this response the last few days, as it was. As she rattled off at him in a shouted whisper, she landed what must've been a dozen angry swats on his arms and his chest. For a moment, he even reflected how lucky he was to not be a man of lesser stature, or this little witch's temper would surely be the death of him.

But she had every right to her anger. Every right to being upset with him over the false grief she'd been forced to endure.

After a moment, however, her words had turned into barely intelligible sobs. His shoulders slumping at the sound, he caught her wrists in one hand and pulled her into a hug.

"We don't have time for this, do we?" she asked, even as she put her head down against his chest and let herself cry.  _God_ , she thought she'd never feel him wrapped around her like this, again.

"No," he said with an apologetic chuckle. "I have to tell you everything as fast as I can. We've wasted time, already."

Nodding, Hermione stayed clinging to him as he gave her an abbreviated explanation of events. As he finished—she couldn't say she was surprised at the reason behind Voldemort's careful treatment of her, though she did doubt it would actually work—he dropped a kiss to the top of her head.

"So we have to get you out of here, but we need to move fast."

Pulling out of his embrace just enough to look up at him, she said, "No."

Thorfinn thought his heart would stop at the surety in that single word. " _Excuse_  me?"

"This may be our only chance to end him."

"An end at which he means to—"

"No. Not  _exactly_ , anyway." Hermione nodded, more certain than ever of herself as she spoke. "This isn't something he can simply do whenever he likes. This will take preparation, and perfect timing. If he dies before he expects to, he'll never have a chance."

He listened, more to her tone than her words. He noted the determined gleam in her chestnut eyes. She was going to do this, even if she had to find a way to slip back in here and do it all on her own.

Merlin, she was such a brilliant little twit, sometimes.

Thorfinn nodded, hoping neither of them would regret it as he said, "All right. What do you need from me?"

Hermione cast her gaze about the dungeon a moment before her brows drew together. She returned her attention to him, her expression bright. "A distraction."

* * *

"And of me, My Lord?" Draco asked, his stomach was twisting itself inside out as he stood there, waiting. His father, Antonin, and Theo had all been sent to patrol specified entry points into the castle grounds.

Which only left him, and he could not imagine why he was exempt from securing their stronghold.

"I have a _most_  important task for you, Draco."

Nodding, the younger wizard clasped his hands behind his back. He dug his nails into his palms to quell his anxious fidgeting. Between being forced to assist in the murder his own mother, and the woman he loved behind locked away in Umbridge Home for so many months, he would just as soon pummel Voldemort to death with his bare hands.

Trapped between rage and fear was an  _awful_  place to be.

"I require you to fetch your mentor." The Dark Lord paused to let out a series of hacking, wet-sounding coughs. "You two will make the Draught of Living Death. The moment it is finished, you will bring it here to me."

Though Draco knew his expression was questioning—that was to be expected, after all—he only nodded. The Dark Lord would expect Draco knew that, despite any curiosity, it was not his place to question. "Yes, My Lord."

Turning on his heel, he exited the room. Down the spiraling lift he pondered the request. As he reached the floor below it clicked.

He shot out of the entryway, determined to hurry to the nearest patrol to share this latest bit of news. Hands grabbed him backward and pulled him toward the closest staircase—far out of earshot of the Headmaster's office. He was so startled that a strained moment passed before he began to struggle. Just as he did, however, he heard his father's voice in his ear.

"Why were you held behind?"

Forcing a gulp down his throat before he managed to speak, Draco looked around the landing of the staircase at Lucius, Theo, and Antonin. He should've suspected they were deliberately neglecting their orders.

No one was  _actually_  coming to the grounds who wasn't already in the castle, anyway.

"He ordered me to have Professor Slughorn help me brew a Draught of Living Death."

The three exchanged a mystified glance at that.

"I think that's how he plans to take over Hermione." Draco nodded as he spoke. "He must mean to put her into the death-sleep, so she's still alive, but unable to fight off his will."

"The mad bastard is still too smart for his own bloody good."

"That's why we're going to stop him," a female voice broke into the conversation.

They'd been so wrapped up, they never heard her footfalls approaching.

Draco spun, never so happy to see the witch's face in his life as he was just then. "Granger!" he said, his voice no more than a hissing whisper.

Hermione laughed as he unexpectedly pulled her in for a hug. It was a strangely welcome gesture, considering the source.

She patted his shoulder as he pulled back. "Bill and Neville aren't with you?"

Draco shook his head. "They followed after the Death Eaters headed for Azkaban. Don't know who was last to the Apparition point, but I can tell you, whoever they were, they  _never_  reached the prison. From there, they went to join the others on the scene."

Nodding, she understood. Well, they were really making short work of Death Eaters, lately, weren't they? MacNair, Nott, Sr. . . . whoever the poor sods were who'd been a bit slower of step leaving the castle, just now.

"I have a plan," she said abruptly, comforted by the weighted footsteps she heard coming up the stairs behind her.

"Oh, good, we're in dire need of one." Antonin barely spared a moment to grin at his own facetiousness before his expression sobered in a blink. Though, according to Thorfinn and the Malfoys, the plan to assassinate Voldemort while the assault on Azkaban took place had sort of been left up in the air after Hermione's imprisonment had forced their hand. "Why are you _still_  here?"

She propped her hands on her hips as she stared up at him. "Because I'm about to kill the Lord of Wizarding Britain."

As he moved up the last step to stand behind her, Thorfinn cracked a grin. This mad idea of hers just might work. "And it's the one way he'll _never_  see coming."

* * *

There was that sickening, squelching cough echoing through the Headmaster's office as Thorfinn knocked on the door. He imagined the Dark Lord thought it was one of the patrolling Death Eaters reporting back. It was far too soon to assume Draco had already returned.

"Enter," the thing inside the room said. Merlin's beard, he sounded worse than he had only days earlier.

Letting out a breath, Thorfinn shook his head. "You so owe me for this," he whispered out of the corner of his mouth.

"I'll make it up to you in  _spades,_  I promise," she murmured back as she lightly swatted him on the arse, hidden in the shadows beyond the entryway.

Squaring his shoulders, Thorfinn threw open the door and stepped inside. As she listened to his footfalls, Hermione focused on her breathing, marshaling her courage for what had to happen.

* * *

_"That's the most Muggle thing I've ever heard!" Theo said in awe._

_A wide grin spread across her lips as she nodded. "Exactly. That's why it'd_ never  _cross his mind that someone would do it."_

* * *

Unveiled shock forced another series of coughs from the Dark Lord as he saw the golden-haired wizard enter the room. "Thorfinn!?" The rage in his voice all but shook the walls.

Nodding, the young man continued until he was in the center of the floor. Holding out his arms, he dropped to his knees.

"What is the  _meaning_ of this?"

"The Resistance, My Lord," he said, shaking his head apologetically. "They did something to my Mark so you could not find them through me. I was able to escape them, but . . . . Not before they managed to get information out of me. How many are in the Death Eater ranks, their names . . . missions . . . ."

Voldemort forced himself to stand and rounded his desk. The elder wand was gripped tight in his bony fist. "Precisely  _how_ did they manage that?"

Thorfinn lowered his gaze, his frame drooping in something like defeat. "Veritaserum, My Lord. Please, I humbly beg your forgiveness."

The Dark Lord frowned, his expression sympathetic. "Oh, Thorfinn . . . ." His serpentine face darkened into a look of pure wrath as he continued. "You should know well I have  _no_ forgiveness."

Hermione nearly jumped at the sound of arching, sizzling energy slicing the air. Peering around the open doorway, she saw Voldemort, hunched and shriveled as the angry red of the Cruciatus Curse bled forth from his wand and into Thorfinn.

She drew in a deep breath, even as her stomach roiled in agitation. Voldemort's gaze, she noted, was fixed on his target. Distance from the door . . . three or four running steps, and she'd be on him . . . .

_Go!_

Hermione could barely believe what she was doing as she flung herself into the room. Voldemort was so intent on delivering Thorfinn's punishment that he heard her steps a moment too late. By the time he turned his wand on her, she was barreling into him.

They crashed to the floor in a bone-jarring heap. In the back of her head, she registered the sound of Thorfinn collapsing, now released from the wash of pain. She wasted little time scrambling for the elder wand.

All the while, Voldemort struggled against her, spitting and cursing even as coughs tore out of him.

She was trying to pry the weapon from his bony fingers, but his grip was impossibly tight. At least he could not angle the wand to hit her with anything like this.

Quickly frustrated with the fight, she brought her knee down into his gut.

He let out a guttural scream, but  _still_  did not relinquish his hold.

"Foolish Mudblood," he said, though his agonized tone was music to her ears. "You cannot use this wand against me, not like this."

Once more, she jammed her knee down, truly catching him off guard as she wrapped her free hand around the upper part of the wand. "Whoever said I mean to?"

Voldemort's shriek of rage split the room as she snapped the wand in two, right in his hand. The creature turned his head, staring in disbelief at his destroyed weapon.

"You  _monster_!" Empowered by her own action, Hermione flew into a blind rage, screaming at him as she brought her fists down, again, and again. "I  _hate_ you! All of Wizarding Britain hates you! Your own bloody followers hate you!"

Every blow, every strike, was the face of someone she loved, lost to her because of him. The fate of someone who would never see their families again. The memory of someone she had to spend her life without.

All. Because. Of.  _Him_.

Her hand throbbed and her words became garbled, tears of rage and sorrow spilling from her eyes as she continued her assault.

She was only dimly aware that he'd stopped moving. Only dimly aware of a familiar voice trying to settle her.

The feel of arms slipping around her from behind startled her so bad, she nearly jumped across the room.

"Shhh, shhhh," Thorfinn's voice was gentle in her ear as he pulled her backward, into his lap. "I think he's done, Princess."

Hermione was trembling in his embrace as she looked over at Voldemort. The once Dark Lord was a bloody mess . . . . A bloody mess whose chest did not rise or fall after a few solid moments of staring at him in utter disbelief.

"He's . . . he's finally . . . ."

Thorfinn could hear the relief in her voice mingling with her tears. He chuckled, aching and weary from his punishment as he pulled her closer. "Tends to happen when you rain down on a nearly-dead body like a hurricane of tiny fists."

She laughed, sniffling before she allowed herself to curl up against him.

* * *

Though Antonin had stood by, hidden in the shadows of the lift, in case Hermione's plan backfired, somehow, the others had gone to keep lookout. They could not have any Death Eaters returning for reasons unknown and stumbling upon their plot. Theo and the Malfoys entered the room cautiously. Antonin had walked in only heartbeats before him, his eye glued to the body. Not far from it, Thorfinn cradled a sobbing Hermione in his arms.

Antonin sank to his knees, uncertain quite what he felt to be _free_. Though, they'd sensed the change through their Marks that the Dark Lord was gone, he'd never expected it would really, truly happen.

"You actually did it," he said, nodding to no one, at all. "Why are you crying when you've managed  _this_?"

Thorfinn met his friend's gaze over the top of the witch's head. "Killing someone with your bare hands tends to have that effect on some people."

Lucius didn't want to intrude—Miss Granger had had a _hell_  of a day, after all—but he had to. "The Death Eaters at Azkaban likely already felt his passing, but they'll continue fighting, since they know what sort of fate awaits them, should they survive. Draco has sent a message to Kingsley. But with whatever is going on there, we might reach them before that ridiculous ferret finds him."

"Oy," Draco said with a scowl.

Lucius rolled his eyes and frowned. "Haste, everyone! I'll stay behind and mind . . .  _that_ ," he said, crinkling the bridge of his nose in distaste as he nodded toward the body.

Everything passed in a blur for Hermione from there. She distantly recalled climbing to her feet and following the others out of the castle. She recalled Apparating with Thorfinn to some designated Apparition point within Azkaban—she imagined it was for emergencies just such as  _this_.

Witches and wizards were still in the thick of combat, just as Lucius' warning had suggested. The Dementors had been destroyed—she thought they'd probably been dealt with first, their dark, filmy forms were scattered across the floors.

Cell doors had been blasted open and prisoners were running for cover, or trying to find a way out.

She saw familiar faces in the crowd. There were no words for the relief she felt as she thought for certain she'd glimpsed Arthur Weasley trailing along behind a visibly protective Bill in the distance.

As they neared the thick of things—Antonin was trying to talk reason to those he came across. Already they'd stumbled over a handful of Death Eaters, fallen in combat.

When Hermione's senses finally reoriented themselves, she found the most alarming sight before her. Though she was tucked into Thorfinn's side as he defended from one of his former comrades whom she did not recognize, to their left, Antonin had engaged Rabastan.

"Stand down, Rabastan," he said, his voice wavering just a bit.

"Why?" Rabastan shook his head, his lower lip shivering as he held his wand steady on his old friend. "So I can spend the rest of my days  _here,_  again?!"

Antonin's frame drooped a bit as he answered, "So I don't have to kill you."

"I don't think you will." Amycus appeared on his other side, his wand trained on Antonin, as well.

Just as Hermione tried to get Thorfinn's attention to help Antonin, Alecto walked into the scene. Something about the other witch's demeanor made Hermione pause.

Her typically mad eyes darted from her brother, to the subject of her unrequited love, and back. After a painful moment, she aimed her weapon.

"Drop your wand, Amycus," she said in a trembling whisper, as though she could not believe her own words.

Her brother sputtered in disbelief, though he never took his gaze from his target. "You'd turn on me for the likes of  _him_?"

"You misunderstand." Alecto's voice was strangely calm amidst the chaos in the background. "I don't plan on surviving this, either. I can _not_  live out my days a prisoner. But I'll be damned if I leave you behind to hurt him."

Amycus shook his head, a cruel smirk curving his lips. He  _refused_  to believe her. " _Avada_ —"

" _Avada Kedavra_."

Hermione covered her mouth with her hands. The tears gathered in Alecto's eyes visible from where she stood.

Before anyone could respond, the witch turned her wand on herself and repeated the curse.

For some strange, completely _unreasonable_  reason, both Hermione and Antonin screamed out the witch's name as she dropped to the floor. She hurried to Alecto's side, but only ended up sitting there, next to her. It was a bizarre moment as she took the other woman's hand between both of her own and simply held onto it.

Never had she imagined  _anyone_  could have the strength to use the Killing Curse on themselves.

Swallowing hard, she turned watering eyes on Antonin and Rabastan. Rabastan's gaze, however, was on Thorfinn. An expression of utter shock crept over his features.

Giving himself a shake, he looked to the fallen Carrows. Hermione thought she could actually see the gears turning in Rabastan's head as he considered the scene before him, and listened to the dwindling mayhem around them.

With a deep breath and a roll of his eyes, Rabastan Lestrange dropped his wand to the floor. "Perhaps I'm not so eager to die, after all," he said in a small, defeated voice.

* * *

The grounds of the Rowle Estate had never seemed so welcoming as they did in that moment as Hermione walked toward the house. Antonin and Thorfinn walked on either side of her with the same exhausted gait as her, she was sure.

Those Death Eaters who's survived had been transported to the holding cells within the Ministry while Azkaban was repaired—again. Upon word of Lord Voldemort's demise reaching the Ministry, Kingsley immediately introduced his petition for the position of Minister. He would personally see to it that the redeemed Death Eaters were placed on probation, supervised by  _him_ , of course. After all, without them, Azkaban would've likely still fallen, but Voldemort would have remained in power, and they all knew it.

It would be weeks before there was any change-over in the power structure of the Ministry, but it was a start.

As they approached the porch, she felt none of them should've been surprised that the door was flung open, and Reina Rowle shot out, like a streak of gold on a beeline for her brother.

She barreled into him with such force that, in his battered state, he toppled right over. Of course, his wincing and groaning at her overzealous hug—all the while as she screamed at him for putting her through this, how dare he let her think he was dead!—didn't deter her from giving him a few good smacks.

Hermione couldn't help but laugh as she watched, aware this was the second time today the poor man had gotten such a mixed reception.

After a few moments of chuckling at his friend's torment, Antonin moved toward them. He plucked Reina off her brother and set her on her feet. "Darling, I think he could use a rest before your continue showing him how _happy_ you are he's still alive."

Although it seemed like Thorfinn might just lay there, groaning and wallowing, at Antonin's words, he was on his feet, as well. "Did you just call her  _darling?_  Really?"

Antonin shrugged as he slipped a weary arm around Reina's shoulders and guided her back toward the door. "She said she prefers it over a Russian pet name."

"Bloody hell," Thorfinn said, shaking his head, even as Hermione slipped her hand into his and started tugging him toward the door, as well. "You're going to be staying with us, aren't you?"

Puffing out his cheeks, Antonin exhaled as he glanced back at the younger wizard. "I've got nowhere else to be."

Once more, Hermione could not help but snicker at her wizard's circumstances. As she crossed the threshold, she turned and looked up at him, her hand still in his.

"Welcome home, Thorfinn," she said, certain that though the expression was tired, it was the brightest smile she'd ever worn in her life.


	27. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

_One Year Later_

Hermione drifted into consciousness slow, and blissful, giving into that peaceful, languid stretch one was allowed when waking unprompted. But the sweep of her hand across the bed didn't smack into Thorfinn as she was used to most mornings.

Cracking open one eye, she looked to his side of the bed. His  _empty_  side of the bed.

She frowned a moment—every once in a while, she had dreadful flashback. Each time, it took her a few heartbeats to reorient herself to the present. A few heartbeats for her breathing to steady, and her pulse to calm as she reminded herself that wherever he'd vanished to, it was  _not_ on a summons to do Voldemort's bidding.

Pulling herself to sit up, she rubbed at her eyes. Yes, that was right, he was at his probation meeting with Kingsley this morning. Even being in relationship with the Hero of Wizarding Britain, Hermione Granger, didn't let him slide on even one of these meetings.

With a wistful sigh, she rose from the bed, sparing a moment to toss on her dressing gown, and strolled to the window. Looking out at the preparations underway in the garden, she thought Kingsley would've allowed him to postpone today's appointment. Honestly, he was going to be here this afternoon, himself, he could've pulled Thorfinn aside during the festivities, but  _no_.

She supposed she had better get ready for the day. It was probably already late; she was surprised Reina had not come to wake her.

Hermione carefully pulled her dress robes from the wardrobe and set them on the bed, before heading into the bathroom. The rush of water from the tap as she turned on the shower muffled the noise, so she never heard him slip into the room behind her.

Grabbing a loose hairpin from the vanity, she secured her hair in a quick, sloppy pile atop her head. Washing would be preferable, but with her wild mane? Even with the use of magic, she doubted it would all be dry in time for this afternoon.

At least the fact that she and Thorfinn slept  _al fresco_ , as he'd charmingly put it one night, spared her the time of having to disrobe. She simply dropped the dressing robe she'd _just_  tossed on down to the floor. Stepping into the tub, she sighed and closed her eyes. For a long moment, she merely stood, letting the spray of steaming water splash down onto her face and shoulders.

Perhaps, she thought in hindsight moments later, she should've expected the arms that circled her and pulled her backward. Though she was startled for a quick second, the immediate familiarity of his bare skin against hers as he hugged her to him calmed her.

"What is the rule about showers, Princess?"

Hermione uttered a soft humming sound in the back of her throat as she let her head roll to one side against his chest. "Never take one without you?"

"And, yet, here you are." As he spoke, he lowered his head, raking his teeth along the side of her throat in teasing little bites.

"To be fair, I wasn't sure when you'd be back, and we've got a big day ahead of us. It was now or never, and I was  _not_  going to do this day the disservice of being unwashed."

Thorfinn chuckled, the rush of his breath tickling her skin. "You really are a chatty little thing."

"And here I thought that was one of the things you love about me?" She turned head and leaned away just enough to meet his gaze as she feigned a pout.

Smirking, he said, "Oh, it is. How else would I have so many excuses to find new and interesting ways to shut you up?"

The little, scoffing gasp she uttered was cut off by his lips covering hers. She all but melted into him as she gave in, kissing him back. Reaching her arms over her head, she linked her fingers behind his neck—the tips only barely made contact, due to their height difference.

He eagerly took the invitation of unencumbered movement, sliding his hands along her wet skin. One upward to cup her breast, teasing and toying, and the other downward, slipping between her thighs.

She broke the kiss, a tiny gasp escaping her at the stroking of his fingertips over her. Collecting herself just enough to speak—even as she assisted his efforts by rocking herself against the working of his hand—she asked, "Do we really have time for this right now?"

Letting out a rumbling exhalation, he nodded. "You didn't sleep _that_  late. It's still two hours until the guests will arrive."

Hermione gave a nod of her own, albeit a slightly more frantic one than his. "Oh, thank  _God_."

Snickering at the relief in her voice, Thorfinn pulled her tighter to him, still. He adored the way she trembled in his embrace beneath the spray of the water as he quickened the rubbing of his fingertips.

He could feel her body going taut against his, and pulled her up to stand on her toes, aiding her.

She threw her head back, crying out as she came. She loved the way he moved against her, even as her body stilled. Loved the way he rolled his hips, pressing forward so she could feel how hard he was.

Hermione gave up the counting in the back of her head and choked out a shuddering sigh as her orgasm started to ebb. She'd once made it as long as twenty seconds, something he still teased her about, because it had only led to her nearly passing out on him.

He chuckled at the exasperated whimper that escaped her as she started rocking against his ministrations, once more. "How long was that one?"

Drawing in a ragged breath, she whispered, "Twelve seconds."

"Dammit," he said, though his voice was laced with amusement.

Her airy giggle was cut short as he rather suddenly lowered himself to sit on his knees in the tub. He pulled her down with him, giving her no time to even question the movement as he used his hands on her to position her over him.

She braced her hands on his knees just as he pulled her down, slipping inside her, fast and deep. Her entire body tensed for a moment at the sweet, tingly rush that coursed through her at his entry.

Thorfinn dropped his head down against her shoulder, a rumbling groan sounding in the back of his throat. His muscles twitched in fine tremors as she drifted forward and sank back over him, again and again.

She adored the pressure of his teeth scraping her shoulder, and the feel of his arms tightening around her. He didn't make it easy to move, but the effort was worth it. Especially as he shifted beneath her, thrusting upward against her rocking motions.

Hermione bit down hard into her bottom lip, holding in a moan. For a time, there was nothing but the blissful, repetitive sensation of him sliding into her and withdrawing.

Wracked by another fine tremor, his movements became erratic. She responded instantly, rocking over him more sharply.

Thorfinn let out a pained sound as he stilled, driving into her with that last, hard thrust. Leaning forward, she placed her palms on the floor of the tub for leverage.

"Sweet  _Merlin_ , Princess," he managed, his tone gruff as he shuddered beneath her motions.

She moved over him, shivering and grinding her hips. Only when she was certain he'd spent himself did she ease to a halt.

For a long while, Thorfinn simply held her to him. Under the spray of hot water, they caught their breath in ragged gulps of air.

He reached around her, turning off the shower. "C'mon, then," he said, his voice still with that delicious, rough edge to it. Shifting her in his arms, he stood up and carried her out of the tub.

"Huh." She paused in her reach for towels, looking about from where he held her in the air.

Smirking, he arched a brow. "What?"

"I just seem to remember a similar circumstance my first day in this house."

"Ah, yes. Was the first time I saw you naked. Quite a memorable event, actually."

Scoffing, she spared a moment to swat his shoulder before draping one of the towels across herself. "Oh, get a move on, you lumbering Viking. We have to get dressed!"

* * *

Sighing, he shook his head as he stared out the window. He propped his fists on his hips, the final preparations underway, it seemed.

"I still can't believe it," he said. "My little sister is getting married. How did this happen? When did this happen? Seems like it's all just . . . so fast."

Hermione only arched a brow, smirking as she finished up in front of the mirror. She'd heard this from him  _so_  many times over these last few months. Each time, he'd start to panic and she'd calm him, only for the same exact discussion to erupt only days later.

"It  _is_  fast, isn't it?" A sudden, angry pout tugging at his bottom lip, he nodded. "Yes, it is too fast. I can't believe I didn't put my foot down about this!"

Her shoulders slumping, Hermione stood up. "Nonsense. Reina is a grown woman; this was  _her_  decision, not yours. You should consider yourself lucky Antonin was respectful about it and asked for your blessing."

He rolled his eyes. "Still—"

"And it might be too soon for some people, but this is what feels right to _them_. You have to respect that."

Nodding once more, he braced a shoulder against the windowsill. His gaze followed the flower-lined aisle that had been set in the garden.

"And what about us?"

Hermione ran her hands over her dress robes in a smoothing gesture as she answered with a distracted air, "I hope you're not going to suggest we don't go. I know you're in a state over this, but you'll be fine. Besides, we're the maid-of-honor and the best man, people  _will_  notice if we don't show."

Chuckling, he licked his lips and tried, again. "I meant . . . ." He jutted his chin toward the scene in the garden. "When are _we_  going to do this?"

Letting out a breath, she shrugged. "Well, I should think when we—" Her eyes shot wide as she cut herself off. Pivoting on her heel to face him, she thought her heart might burst in her chest at the grin curving his mouth.

"Thorfinn Rowle," she said, her voice barely a whisper. "Are—are you asking me to marry you?"

Pushing away from the window, he stepped closer to her. "Would you say yes if I did?"

Hermione swallowed hard as she thought that over. A process which went by far faster than she'd have believed. The idea of marrying Thorfinn?

Holding his gaze, she nodded. "I think I would."

He reached out, cupping her cheek. "Then I think I just might be."

"Are you?"

Thorfinn's smile melted a little, making for a more serious expression. "I am."

Hermione'd never felt so certain of anything in her life as she was of her answer. "Then, yes."

His smile returning, he drew her close, catching her in a sweet, playful kiss.

As they broke away from each other, he said, "I guess this means we're engaged?"

"I guess it does." She smiled, nodding.

"C'mon," he said, claiming his  _fiancé's_  hand to lead her downstairs.

"Oh!" Hermione tugged him to a halt, mid-stride.

"What?"

"Well, it's just that this is Reina and Antonin's big day, so . . . maybe we don't tell them about this until they get back from their honeymoon."

Thorfinn slumped against the doorframe behind him, then. His expression falling, he pressed his hands to his face.

The sudden change in his demeanor worried her. "Thorfinn?"

"Oh, God," he said, his miserable voice muffled by his palms. "My little sister's  _honeymoon_  . . . ."

"Oh!" Hermione couldn't help but giggle as she pulled him close, cradling his head against her shoulder. "And you were doing so well with it for a minute, there, too."

Eventually, she managed to drag him from the room and down the stairs. It seemed only by the grace of the powers that be that they were not late for their roles.

And even more so did it seem by their grace that Thorfinn managed to hold himself together throughout his little sister's wedding.

**THE END**


End file.
